The Waste Land
by mrpoohnminnie
Summary: When growing insecurities threaten the engagement of Elsie Hughes to Charles Carson, what waste land awaits them? Canon-divergent AU beginning with S6ep1. Whether the story returns to canon, you'll have to keep reading to find out!
1. Prologue A Handful of Dust

This has taken quite a while to publish, as mistressdickens can probably tell you. I am indebted to her, and superiorbiscuits, for taking a look at a very rough draft of this canon-divergent AU that begins with S6ep1.

When drafting the third chapter (first chapter written), T.S Eliot's poem, _The Waste Land_ , immediately came to mind. The poem dictates the tenor of every chapter of this fic. Please enjoy my first foray into a true canon-divergent AU that's taken almost half a year for me to write and feel comfortable enough about posting. Consider it as a branching off from S6ep1. As to whether it rejoins canon for good - well, you'll just have to read along!

* * *

Late February, 1925. Set during the middle of S6ep1, beginning with the afternoon of the day Anna and Mr. Bates are cleared of any wrongdoing regarding Mr. Green's death.

 _And I will show you something different from either  
Your shadow at morning striding behind you  
Or your shadow at evening rising to meet you;  
I will show you fear in a handful of dust._

-The Waste Land, T.S. Eliot

* * *

Morning. Downton. Downstairs.

Uncharacteristically, Elsie Hughes stumbled upon exiting the boot room that morning after the staff breakfast. But the loss of her surefootedness wasn't new. If she pressed herself, she could roughly pinpoint the steps that led to losing her sea legs.

In the course of a year and a tumultuous winter, culminating in something as unthinkable as Charles Carson daring to ask for her hand in marriage, it was increasingly unfathomable for her to consider managing frothy waves and softly sinking sand. That magical summer day seemed very far away from her winter of sleepless nights.

Now, the season was on the verge of giving way to spring, and Mrs. Hughes could scarcely consider traversing a dammed stream at the foot of a snowcapped mountain on the verge of melting in the warm light of day.

But Mrs. Hughes was the mountain, the stream, the gathering lake, and the dam that kept it all at bay. The pressure built, a dam of increasingly weakened fortitude struggled to keep control of her emotions, churning and far from settled.

For the gathering truths hiding behind the dam were not sedate as a still lake. Long before Christmas Eve, 1925, the waters grew in magnitude as her emotions defrosted from decades of keeping them frigidly in check, despite her warm heart beginning to beat for Charles Carson alone.

The resulting rush towards the weakening dam took a perilous route, however. The stream towards deciding if, and how, she would be married to Charles Carson was fraught with turbulent currents and eddies only hinting at underlying issues that had yet to be addressed, let alone resolved. Though Mr. Carson's breathtaking confessions were meant to eliminate the hazards amidst the stream, they only muddied the waters. In the resulting obscurity, minor issues could not be extricated from the weakening dam itself.

Elsie Hughes paddled desperately above these murky waters, unable to decide if she should stay afloat or be pulled under. She found herself on a rare and shining afternoon, meandering through the maze of downstairs, with an unanswerable question on her mind.

But her internal clock kept her a capable housekeeper, and a silent alarm went off at the thought that the family was soon to depart for the auction. These minute details provided helpful, albeit brief, distractions from herself. But Mrs. Patmore would soon be alone in the kitchen, and Mrs. Hughes needed counsel, once more.

Sending Daisy on her way was automatic; her swirling thoughts were not. So usually capable of instant analysis and confident decision-making, Mrs. Hughes was amidst an emotional paralysis. Days before, she had barreled into the kitchen with curiosity and determination to hear what Mrs. Patmore had sought to learn from Mr. Carson. Now that she was privy to the nature of his marital expectations, her gait was far less driven.

Mrs. Patmore had expertly avoided steering her in a given direction, despite being moved by the depth of emotion Mr. Carson had apparently displayed.

If only Mrs. Hughes had not chosen to communicate through an emissary. If only she had witnessed her betrothed's moving display to allow the mysteries of her own heart to be solved.

In the wake of the family's trip to the auction, Mrs. Hughes assigned her maids tasks that would keep them occupied for the afternoon. As for her own whereabouts, Elsie Hughes intended to spend part of that time locked away in her bedroom under the guise of "fixing" her day dress.

=C+E=C+E=C+E=C+E=C+E=

That afternoon. Servant's Quarters.

The lock slid into place, and she drowned the sound out with a resounding sigh. Dust filtered through the afternoon light, crossing through it to sit before her dressing table. The mirror reflected back a conflicted woman—beautiful to her betrothed, but unable herself to look beyond the lines, the gathering darkness formed over hours of lost sleep.

Mrs. Hughes wasn't a vain woman, or at least so she thought. But candid observation before a mirror – in her room, in the bathroom – was something she could hardly avoid in the past few weeks.

Words flitted about her mind, cacophonous to no one but herself.

 _In my eyes, she is beautiful._

 _Did he really say that_ , she wondered with a worried bite to her lip.

Mrs. Patmore had uttered the verbatim statement to her the night before. But it still required her to suspend her disbelief that Charles Carson had managed such unadorned yet breathtaking words. But these confessions were almost hidden behind Mr. Carson's intentions – his terms of the deal, as it were.

From what Mrs. Patmore imparted, the details were straightforward enough. Charles Carson wanted a full marriage - a wife in every sense. _I'm not marrying anyone else_ , he'd boldly declared months before. And while that made things clearer on his end, her own part was hardly settled.

She also had decades of countervailing evidence, her own misjudgment of him over the years, and the whisperings of a household and village curious about the newly engaged couple marrying at their age. _At their age._

Such whisperings from curious onlookers were registered and ignored (up to a point). The only detractor she would acknowledge in the midst of her indecision was herself.

 _These days_. She had said it to Mrs. Patmore, proud woman that she was, with such desperation. _These days_ , she worried over letting him see her in the altogether.

This was not a thought that hurtled from the hinterlands. In her worried mind, the gathering whispers of her own conflicted thoughts turned to a dull roar one afternoon outside the house and village of Downton.

=C+E=C+E=C+E=C+E=C+E=

 _It was an odd anniversary, a trip into York to a respectable shop that catered to Mrs. Hughes's unique status as a housekeeper._

 _After a long year of fretting, over life and love, about Anna and Mr. Bates, she had managed to shed nearly a stone. Unable to avoid the discussion of needing new measurements for her utilitarian evening uniform, Lady Grantham had insisted on her purchasing a new frock. Thus, she was forced to stand in the York shop as two women measured her corseted figure with efficiency. Somehow she managed to avoid looking at herself for too long in the mirror, focusing instead on the details of the new frock that rested on a table nearby._

 _But when the gown arrived a few weeks later, those details were not what held her captive in her room._

 _If she had not been recently engaged and thoroughly confused about what married life would mean for her, she might have not spent so much time thinking about every curve, the skin that remained hidden under the flat neckline of her new frock. The times were changing, and she usually welcomed them._

 _She could have managed a small v-neck, to mirror the tips of the double collar. But that would invite scrutiny for which she was not prepared – from Mr. Carson, from anyone. From there, all thoughts of lower necklines were minor to what she contemplated. She had wondered if anything approaching tantalizing to Mr. Carson lay hidden beneath her corset, her shift._

 _And the reveal of her evening uniform left her more confused than ever about Mr. Carson's intentions. Even she could concede the new evening uniform was more suited to her slimmer figure. But her woolgathering delayed her work, and led her to rush upstairs to ensure the proper china was on hand for a last-minute change for the family's dinner._

 _She entered the dining room through the servery, the energy of fixing this minor detail propelling her every step despite her precious cargo._

 _He had known her tread anywhere, raising his head slightly without losing sight of the offending object on the table that had caught his now fixed eye._

" _It's a good thing we're changing the set; this one is marred slightly. I wonder if it's cracked."_

" _I'll take a look, later," she promised, half-interested in whether he'd lift his gaze to her and her new dress._

 _It was the exact same moment Charles Carson was leaning over the table, a delicate piece of the family's china grasped by his capable hands. He looked up for a moment, his strong jaw slackening along with his grip on the crockery._

 _Eyes widening with alarm, Elsie Hughes emitted a gasp that did nothing to quell his own nerves as he managed to more firmly secure the precious china._

" _It's alright now," he assured her as she came closer, the perilous moment passing._

 _But another moment was upon them, one she couldn't quantify._

 _She first looked upon him with concern, his unsteady hand quite foreign to her. But when his fingers brushed against hers as they traded china pieces, concern about his wellbeing disappeared from the questions clouding her mind. His eyes were clearly surveying her new dress, and that realization distracted her usually capable powers of observation._

 _His voice was hoarse, as if he hadn't had a drop of water for ages. "Your dress," he started and halted quite abruptly._

 _She thought it was a trick – the mere flickering of candles on the grand table. But his eyes glimmered with something she could not identify. Had she had a chance to glance at him in all his weaker moments (which were far more numerous than she realized), she would have recognized the flickering gaze as muted but growing desire._

 _Before the moment could extend further, Andrew was stepping from behind the folding screen. And the glimmer in Mr. Carson's eyes had extinguished._

 _It was as if the moment had never passed as he uttered, "I'm quite alright, Mrs. Hughes. You should return downstairs – the family will be in here momentarily." He didn't glance at her again as he turned on his heel to return to the drawing room._

 _And this momentary glimpse between terse language and abrupt departures only led to her continued discombobulation. Her confusion, etched in every pained facial expression behind a false smile, is what compelled Mrs. Patmore to finally corner the housekeeper in her bedroom a few days later._

=C+E=C+E=C+E=C+E=C+E=

Banishing the memory momentarily, Mrs. Hughes began the transition from her daytime to evening uniform. She caught sight of her corseted waist in the glass on her dressing table. It was trim, not as trim as she was as a young girl, not like the young Alice Neal in that portrait Mr. Carson had kept for decades.

Keeping her eye on the glass, the creases at her elbow were exaggerated in her mind. And she wondered yet again on what imperfection Mr. Carson would fixate if he ever saw her like that. She grew brave enough to rid herself of her corset and shift, to angle the glass to critique her breasts and the soft plane of her stomach. Gulping, she saw she was not a young farm girl anymore. That was certain to her now, more than ever.

It was that conviction that ensured her attempted slumber the night before, after Mrs. Patmore finally imparted her knowledge of Mr. Carson's thoughts on his marital expectations, was quite restless.

 _The news was quite extraordinary, the cook had readily conceded. When Mrs. Patmore had shut the door to her bedroom, she had the wherewithal to insist Mrs. Hughes partake in a small nip of brandy._

 _But its effect was not immediate, the cook could had readily observed. She had thought her words would lead to the housekeeper's confused and pained countenance to blossom with the relief that comes with clarity. But she was met with silence, disbelief further muddling things._

 _After an extra nip of brandy, Mrs. Hughes had returned to her bedroom, finding the courage to secure her door and shed her nightgown and robe. The room was nearly dark, then, a single lamp providing ample light for the survey she hoped to conduct. Her hand had ghosted across her collarbone before wavering at her waist, fraught with the nerves that came with contemplating all Mrs. Patmore had shared._

 _Her fiancée's voice had echoed through her mind more often than she cared to admit over the years. But she could not conjure him saying she was beautiful, to anyone, much less her. And she could not place his gaze the moment he first saw her in her newest evening uniform. That inability to hear in her mind his confession of love, to remember his gaze and identify a trace of desire, did nothing to quell her fears as she stood in the glowing light of another sleepless night._

As she prepared herself for yet another formal evening at Downton Abbey, Elsie Hughes was more than aware of the prolonged tension between herself and Mr. Carson. It was now approaching an unbearable stage following Mr. Carson's vehement refusal to call Mrs. Hughes by her first name.

Interactions were strictly limited to household matters now. Prior to his conversation with Mrs. Patmore, it would have done little good to approach Mr. Carson alone. The chance of heaping additional frustration upon the considerable amount of confusion in her mind caused her to avoid his solitary company.

Amidst this atmosphere, a resolution of whether she intended to become Mr. Carson's wife in the truest sense was still absent. But Elsie Hughes felt obligated to apprise Mr. Carson of her contemplation given his recent revelations to Mrs. Patmore. She promised herself to not let the day end without at least informing him of her contemplation. It was the very least that she could do.

Yet in the fading light, she ventured another glance at herself. Standing in her corset, she chewed on her lip before staring resolutely away from the mirror. All hopes of finding any confidence, let alone any resolution, waned along with the setting sun.

To be continued.

* * *

Thank you all for reading. It's early days, but I'd still love to know what you think.

A/N: My eternal gratitude goes out to mistressdickens and superiorbiscuits for daring to look at a very rough draft of this story and buy in to a very different take on S6. Your comments were invaluable as this idea matured and became a more complete exploration. Thank you, truly.


	2. A Heap of Broken Images

We begin our departure from canon.

Late February, 1925.

* * *

 _What are the roots that clutch, what branches grow  
Out of this stony rubbish? Son of man,  
You cannot say, or guess, for you know only  
A heap of broken images…_

-The Waste Land, T.S. Eliot

* * *

 _When I am alone  
I sit and dream  
and when I dream  
The words are missing_

-Time to Say Goodbye, lyrics for the Lauren Aquilina version

* * *

Continuation of the Prologue. That evening after reprimanding Daisy. Butler's pantry.

Despite his gallantry, the endearingly selfless and painful pursuit of the avoidance of awkwardness, Charles Carson lied. And they both knew it the moment he said it. But it didn't stop her from feeling grateful, momentarily.

"Right, well if you've had second thoughts, I think we should let the staff know in the morning…

"There'll be a bit of a nine day's wonder, of course. But… we'll get over it."

While Mr. Carson slowly headed for the door, Mrs. Hughes had opportunity at her doorstep. But for what? He wanted all or nothing, a conviction formed over more years than she realized.

But the realization that her feelings for Charles Carson were romantic love, recognized and reciprocated to the point of welcoming a future married life, was altogether a new idea for her.

While she progressively embraced change, she could not move past divining what all a future marriage entailed. Too many months of their brief engagement passed without tangible indication that he desired her or she was capable of desiring him in such away. And whether she was prepared to give and accept passionate love was beyond her contemplation in the past few weeks, in that very moment.

All that mattered was how he rushed to fill the silence. All that mattered was how he broke his heart before her very eyes to spare her.

" _We'll get over it."_

That he had misunderstood the purpose for her conversation that evening—to apprise him of her thoughts but not announce a decision—amounted to a secondary concern.

Most importantly, she had yet to understand herself, for she was not just having second thoughts. No, these thoughts could not be unraveled in the span of a few moments of awkward silence despite his candor, despite her own attempt to acknowledge she had been putting him off.

And on that evening, that divide and paralysis of indecision is what made all the difference.

She would not make a great leap until she understood herself, for better or worse.

And with that, the chapter of their engagement came to a sudden close.

What was left was an awkward, painful silence that had distended even as the world outside his pantry was brimming with ebullience.

The silence had beckoned her as he headed towards the door, prompting Elsie Hughes to say anything, do anything to say what she needed to say (of her confusion, her fear, about her body, about her ability to please and be pleasing).

But the words never came, not the right ones to even explain her indecision as he turned to escape his pantry.

A strangled noise escaped her, a single, incomplete but sincerely expressed thought finally ventured forth in a hushed whisper.

"I'm sorry."

It was strange to hear the joyful gathering in the Servant's Hall amidst the ensuing quiet of his room. And in a few more moments, including a silent memorial to their brief and confusing engagement coming to end, they went their separate ways.

Throughout the entire exchange, Mr. Carson couldn't hold her gaze, not for long, and she didn't blame him. He had laid his heart bare to the messenger, Mrs. Patmore, only because Elsie Hughes couldn't broach the subject with him directly . And he crushed his heart before her, providing her a means to back out of their engagement quietly.

=C+E=C+E=C+E=C+E=C+E=

She was defiant as she stared herself down in her dressing table mirror later that evening. _And was I so wrong to do it that way?_ Sighing, she eyed the Beecham's powder she'd brought up with her. But its acrid taste was not welcome. Getting ready for bed was a slightly more palatable task.

Her actions over the past few weeks, of using Mrs. Patmore as a go-between, was simply the way Mrs. Hughes approached the problem, rightly or wrongly. Moreover, she had tried, in her own way, to discern what type of marriage he hoped to have with her. The results of her trials were mixed, leaving a heap of broken images with no narrative, no easily understood conclusion.

St. Valentine's had come and gone with a single, red rose and a formal card from 'C. Carson,' while her note came from 'Elsie May.' He had smiled at her on that morning, and it made her breath hitch before another household crisis interrupted them. But he did not venture to hold her hand or kiss her cheek later that evening. She thought this was her answer, and she thought she was quietly resigned to these muted pleasantries.

And while he began to ask about setting a date, she used those occasions to talk of retirement, of their house, attempting to glean his intentions regarding their living situation. She had, at the very least, ferreted out that retirement was not yet an option. And she was grateful for that – the normalcy of it, the focus on still earning for herself, for Becky.

=C+E=C+E=C+E=C+E=C+E=

Earlier that month.

 _The night air was still in Mrs. Hughes's sitting room, save for the occasional hiss and tick from her parlor fireplace. Mr. Carson had taken to rotating his chair at her side table, bringing him just a tad closer, making it easier to look at her when they ended the day in her sitting room. It was just another shift after becoming engaged, but things never seemed to move much further than that._

 _His fingers tapped slightly on the base of his glass, a deep, hollow sound amidst the relative quiet of her room. She looked up then, somewhat startled. "I'm sorry," he offered before clearing his throat._

" _It's warmer tonight," he began again and she thought she could divine his next thought._

 _She only hummed in response. Little did she know he loved that sound despite how little she actually said nowadays._

" _Now that spring is fast upon us," he continued, his eyes tentative yet probing at the same time. Her meandering thoughts made her miss the now-apparent segue. "Do you think we should think of setting a date?"_

 _Her eyes went wide for a moment, before drifting focus towards her china cabinet. "Well, the cottage renovations are just underway…"_

 _He was confused, as was her intent – to distract and to investigate. But he mustered an answer, nevertheless._

" _That shouldn't affect our immediate plans. The house will take time, and I don't intend on living there immediately." He told her, finding little in her expression to glean her mood. "Is that what you thought to do – wait for the house to finish and live there?"_

 _She timed her next sip of sherry deliberately, giving her a moment to compose herself, to plan her next approach. "Well, you've started to talk of retirement more than ever, and I just wondered if that was part of the immediate plans…," her voice fell away as he grew incredulous for a moment._

" _Is that would you want – to retire upon marriage?"_

 _It would delay things, perhaps make their intentions clearer, she considered before tilting her head. "What I want is your perspective first," she countered before he huffed and looked away for a moment, gathering his thoughts with one more glance at her._

 _This wasn't really getting at the point he wanted to address, but it was necessary for her understanding of what exactly they were doing here, two older people getting married. He sighed inwardly. He thought marriage would make their communication more open, but their impending nuptials had done the opposite, to his alarm._

" _You are correct, I am thinking of retirement more, without as much foreboding as before. But that's only a manner of thinking about then, not now. We could retire now; it would be possible financially even with the renovations. But, that's only if we wanted to."_

 _She thought to capitalize on his honesty, and her nervous energy had her rocking back in her chair slightly. "You can be honest, Mr. Carson – would you want to retire now?" The answer would lead to a discussion of their house, the bedrooms that were supposed to be filled by guests, not themselves, at least not yet._

" _I…." He was careful, very careful to say the right thing after years of saying precisely the wrong thing when it came to Elsie Hughes. "If you would like to retire, I would, as well. "_

 _Her face softened for a moment at the admission, but it didn't truly give her his thoughts, or so she decided. It was just another instant of her being given a piece of his mind and rejecting it._

" _Setting my thoughts aside," she prefaced before her chin ducked slightly. "Would you want to remain here, after I mean?" After they wed –_ _if_ _they wed, and_ _how_ _, were the thoughts that hurtled through her brain. But she had the awareness to not offer such tentative language to him, not now._

 _Swallowing, he admitted, "Well, yes, I would. There's no reason for us leave now, again, not unless we wanted to."_

=C+E=C+E=C+E=C+E=C+E=

They never got beyond that circular dialogue – fatigue or another household crisis would interrupt them. But, she had something just beyond a mere inkling of what he thought. And what she thought, well, that was another matter entirely.

During that evening, he had revealed one more insight, which proved to be the most confusing of them all.

" _If we continued to work after we marry, we would just have to assure Lord and Lady Grantham that nothing will change."_ He had meant it to preface their staying on at Downton after they wed.

But the phrase affected her like two sides of a coin – _nothing_ _will change_.

On one side, it afforded Mrs. Hughes some semblance of independence, a means of still providing for herself and for Becky outside of the savings Mr. Carson had salted away.

But on the other side, it brought only a steady flow of questions at the impossibility of such a challenge. She imagined, after years trying not to engage in such frivolities, a married life in which nothing would change after living close but not together for decades.

Overlaying such disparate ideas made her dizzy – were they to do with a set of rooms at the Abbey or a cottage on the grounds? Have separate bedrooms? Separate beds? Or something more intimate?

It was the latter option that had her standing in her bedroom with her robe gaping open and frowning after their circular talk about the house and retirement. Exposing herself to the cold air of a winter's eve, she stood under her critical eye while assessing every sag, every imperfection she invented on herself while staring in the mirror of her dressing table.

 _Nothing_ _will change_ had brought her comfort then, if only for a moment. If they were simply to live as loving but non-intimate partners, he wasn't likely to see this frame of a woman in late middle-age. And that she could handle. But even that tentative equilibrium left her distressed.

For what were they doing marrying at this late stage of life, then? No babes would come from her womb; no station would be secured with her pauper's accounts. He wanted security, surely. And she would give him that as she always did.

 _Nothing_ _will change._

But he had begun to ask with greater frequency about setting a date for the wedding. Combined with the scant evidence of any desire for her, Mrs. Hughes was quite unsettled. If nothing would change, even what he called her in their private moments, then why the urgency, she had wondered.

She thought she had her answer one evening a week or so before Mrs. Patmore imparted his breathtaking honesty. The air had turned electric between them when she stopped before the mirror at the foot of the stairs just as he returned from the main floor after ringing the dressing gong. Their charges were occupied elsewhere, creating a momentary respite amidst the hub of downstairs.

He stood behind her as she adjusted her hair, catching her eyes in the glass in such a way that left her throat dry. She turned to him then, intending to ask something of insignificance. But her question was lost as his gaze had begun to wander from her eyes to somewhere below. And in that split second before Mr. Molesley had bounded down the stairs in search of a missing salt shaker, a quivering feeling hurtled down her torso – a painful, pleasurable thing that thrilled her.

But she also felt as exposed as she did with her robe open to the cold air. And she knew Mr. Carson would never be happy with what he found there.

It didn't help matters when he finally spoke. "There's no use woolgathering, Mrs. Hughes." She couldn't see his eyes were smiling when he spoke, that he meant no harm as she headed down the hall to retrieve the missing shaker. All that was left were her own thoughts of insecurity and doubt.

It was those thoughts that had kept her up at night, had left her powerless to voice them before the engagement fizzled out in a disharmonious ending.

=C+E=C+E=C+E=C+E=C+E=

Even in her bedroom on the evening their engagement came to an end, she was bereft of the words she needed to say to him – to voice the fears that overcame her.

He had laid down his terms when Mrs. Patmore pressed him, imparted words of devotion and pride. But there were other words of assurance so desperately needed to be given directly (and actions – for human touch was a precious thing to them both). He had not provided them, unaware of the full extent of her own fears, and, therefore, unable to express his conviction to her.

She sat for quite some time, dreaming of a different life than the one she led now – as a woman working alongside a man who hoped but failed to live with her as closely as two people can.

Even though nothing did change between them, officially—everything changed that night, and for the worse.

* * *

A/N 1: Many thanks for reading. It may not be a happy AU currently, but I ask that you always travel in hope. In the meantime, whatever you're feeling, I'd love to know. Drop a line if you can - it would mean a lot.

A/N 2: This story evolved from a comment made on one of Mistressdickens's stories. The comment challenges us to think about how Carson would respond to Lord Grantham's collapse at the dinner table in S6ep5 had he never been married to Mrs. Hughes. This AU fic attempts to address that issue over several chapters. I beg for your indulgence in this idea - I hope where it takes you is worth some of the angst it might cause.

A/N 3: And, one last thing. Mistressdickens and I share a headcanon about how confusing St. Valentine's must have been for the old boobies during the time of their engagement. It must have happened just before S6 started. While I was still tinkering away on this, Mistressdickens asked if she could build off that idea (only touched on briefly here). The result is a fantastic one-shot, _Valentines are for the Young_ , which you should read right now (or re-read)!


	3. Mixing Memory and Desire

Late April, 1925.

 _April is the cruelest month,  
Lilacs out of the dead land,  
mixing Memory and desire,  
stirring Dull roots with spring rain._

\- The Waste Land, T.S. Eliot

* * *

He missed the brisk air of winter, for it brought with it still the promise of a future, shared with another. Not just another – her.

And so he sought it out on some evenings, venturing past the walls of the yard when all his charges were on their way to their beds. They would not be interested in his quiet tread on the pebbled walk leading out of the yard. They would not pay any mind to him, under a glittering sky, searching the stars or searching at nothing.

What his body needed most was a gathering fog he could inhale one breath at time. For in those moments, his thoughts would still as he breathed slowly, emitting the dredged contents of his lungs while the pain in his heart receded to a dull ache.

He thought he could do it, let his engagement with Elsie Hughes unravel and fall away without a formal announcement. And while the news filtered through their charges and employers, never returning to them directly, only obliquely, he could not let their tentative association become unbound in his heart with any formality.

And his heart would rebel against her hold on him, but he would never disrespect her decision, never call attention to how it signaled the end of a wondrous age – of Charles Carson being hopeful about the future. He had let that heady feeling, that assured anticipation of better days ahead, interlope into his ordered, dignified world over the past year. It had made his gait lighter, his arms swing higher.

And it had made his dreams more vivid as they held the chance of becoming reality. His hope for the future was to be a mere prelude to the greatest joy he would ever hope to have. But all it ensured was the greatest heartache he could ever know, creating a bottomless cavern in his chest .

=C+E= C+E= C+E= C+E= C+E=

This wound was incurable, he thought in the beginning. And he took it on selflessly, not fighting against her wishes. He had told her, with willful conviction, that he would never marry anyone else.

While bold, his statement alone was not enough, he had learned once Mrs. Patmore finally summoned up the courage to play messenger between the two would-be lovers.

It had felt so blindingly raw, in the beginning. But really, the pain had hardly receded in the weeks that followed and the air became warmer, the earth greener. He hid it well enough, they both did.

Fortunately, the forces that kept their nightcaps shared between them alone alone in the past year persisted into 1925. Daisy continued to study diligently, for which Mrs. Hughes was grateful for more than one reason. She cheered her hard work, as much for the sake as going as far God and luck allowed along with the distraction from her own inability to do the same.

And so both Mrs. Hughes and Mr. Carson reunited with old friends: literature. Books of their youths, the early years before she became housekeeper, the ones they tactfully set aside over the years to ensure a steady stream of discussions in every free moment that managed together.

Now that their separation was complete, it shocked them both how much they managed to read. How many years had their relationship, a silent but steady presence in their lives, dominated their thoughts? How many moments were taken up by smiles and lingering looks between sips of sherry instead of hours reading Hardy, Shelley, and Wells?

That was the true shock for them personally – that as little time they had to themselves at Downton, they had increasingly reserved those moments for each other, in person and in spare lines on a letter between London and Downton.

But then, of course, their engagement was at first a pleasant shock to the system at Downton, above and below stairs. The shock came from the wholehearted acceptance of the union, an assumption that it was a natural conclusion without actually contemplating the nature of it.

The nature of it.

But that was the point—the nature of their married life hadn't been contemplated together, let alone discussed together beyond innocuous conversations on retirement.

And to their credit, while their engagement was at once a natural and extraordinary conclusion to their relationship developed over decades, the true nature of their future life was something almost not to be broached. For butlers and housekeepers in the country didn't wed, did they? That is, until they both summoned the courage to speak more freely, but only just.

How could he tell her of his dreams that she still haunted? The sleepless nights he managed in between?

How could she tell him of her own heartache? That she truly wished to overcome her understandable fears?

She knew he was a man of passion, of romance even. She remembered keenly the way he spoke of wanting desperately to marry Alice. But was his passion in the past? Or was it hidden under the layers of his livery?

Too many mixed signals in the afterglow of a perfect Christmas Eve left Mrs. Hughes bereft of direction.

Yet even with knowledge that Mr. Carson sought a full marriage, neither Mrs. Hughes nor Mr. Carson truly knew the depth of his regard for the woman who captured his heart. They had seen past their uniforms, glimpsed into hearts and keen minds, but it was their positions, their unfailing respect and professionalism even after their engagement had ended, which kept them together.

But the nature of that togetherness kept them apart.

Mrs. Hughes could not meet his vision of a life shared as close as two people can, in every aspect. They shared that now, she had thought, perhaps not as loving as they could as man and wife. But sharing a bed, sharing something requiring the ridding of the last vestiges of the shields she used to protect herself from the world, even her blessed corset, was incomprehensible. And was her inability not justified in the wake of Mr. Carson not even able to contemplate calling her by her first name, not while they were working (when weren't they working)?

Perhaps it was a consequence of their professional lives not allowing them both to emote, to express, to let loose and savor the contact of the human touch, tremulous and overwhelming as it could be. Their wondrous paddling into the sea was a revelation of touching hands before their charges. But to lie with him, his bare chest against hers, her corset no longer protecting her from those strong yet tender hands, was too much.

Perhaps it was a life lived on constant guard, for the secrets she kept for others, for herself and family. She knew the perils of what befell the young women who strayed, gave in to the temptation to engage in certain aspects with a man. And rich or poor, the women suffered for the decisions long after the man faded from the collective memory of an unforgiving world.

But the man who wanted to share these things with her was not an unkind man, a thoughtless man – well, not always.

For their professional partnership to work, she had learned to not hope, nor dare or even dream that the sparks that went off between them would catch fire. While he had mended his heart, she had kept hers hidden under lock and key to avoid the pain of unreciprocated love. And it kept her surprised at the oddest of moments, before and after their engagement.

For she knew the man, stubborn and proud, was also graced with a tender heart. Yet that knowledge did not prevent her astonishment upon witnessing his hurried send-off to a friend who had intended to make amends, upon witnessing his confession one Christmas Eve that his search for a house was not a quest for him to attempt alone. She had hardly fathomed, rightly or wrongly, that she dominated his thoughts and actions to do better, be the kind man he had the capability of being.

But that was the point, wasn't it? That they thought of the other in everything they did. While other butlers and housekeepers with such long associations learned to anticipate the other, in word and deed, it was never just that between them.

Not many butlers would recline in bed after a long day, contemplating the shape of the housekeeper's ear, the fine lines of her neck that became visible when she changed her hairstyle or donned a new evening dress. Few would dream of owning a home with the housekeeper, a sofa and carpet shared between them on a colder night before the fire. Even fewer would feel a tingle of pleasure at the memory of the housekeeper gasping in delight when his attempt at humour finally hit the mark. And fewer still would compare the lightening sky on a cloudless morning to the hues of the housekeeper's eyes and wonder what the day would bring in a world with her in it—alive and blessedly well.

Yet all of that was before.

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He never had the chance to tell her that fateful night that he was never more sure than in his belief she would please him, in the altogether, in her rattiest nightgown. Instead, he turned to leave that graveyard in his pantry before her quiet voice reached out from the open grave.

 _"What about the house, surely you should take my name off it."_

 _He stilled then, his eyes closing painfully, unable to eliminate all those imaginings of them in their cottage. "If you don't mind, we can discuss it later. It's high time to round up the staff and shuttle them off to bed."_

 _A diversion, something more characteristic of her in these past few weeks than him. She decided to give him a wide berth._

 _"Of course," she agreed. She had wanted to add so many things—gratitude, condolences, words of regret that would never do. But her mind was reeling, even more off kilter than her strange season of indecision._

 _All she could do was depart from the door furthest from him. A few moments later, Mr. Carson re-emerged from his pantry with his inherently dignified demeanor, however altered eternally._

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In the weeks that followed, not many dared to broach the subject with him. He was right to inform Mr. Bates, who tactfully informed Lord Grantham. It was a wonder the earl didn't stumble upon the topic over a meal, as he was prone to do with similarly delicate matters. And he could rely on Lady Mary keeping silent on the issue. Though she couldn't quite articulate it, she was relieved her champion did not continue down a path that would only lead to the likelihood he could develop divided loyalties when it came to his favored Crawley daughter. Little did she know, such a divide already existed. And it was memorialized on Christmas Eve, 1924, when Charles Carson chose the moment Lady Mary Crawley captured the attention of everyone, save for himself and Elsie Hughes.

The usual back and forth between the Crawleys and their butler was somewhat awkward for a time. Despite his underappreciated powers of observation, Carson failed to notice the tension. While he survived by clinging to the familiar, to the minute details that made him so capable at his seasoned post, even he was unaware of the stilted air that occasionally ensnared him.

Only Mrs. Patmore's attempts to wrestle details from him seemed to make him aware of how desolate he felt. Had he been privy to her thoughts, he would have learned Mrs. Hughes felt much the same.

Now, they carried on, as best they knew how. As blood still flowed in Charles Carson, he would work to the end, the autumn of his life. In the midst of the beckoning spring, retirement was easily acquired with the guest house having one bedroom complete, the plumbing providing modest, livable conditions. But it would be lost on him alone – the idleness of it all. Retirement once served as a means to a very specific end – married life with Elsie Hughes. But now…At least he could work at what he knew in his veins, and that he did. That she was there, well. He only wished for her happiness, even if that did not include a life officially shared with him.

Years later, he knew that the Crawleys might remember old Carson, loyal to the end as a faithful servant. He hoped, now, that Elsie Hughes would remember he was loyal to her and her wishes, as much as it pained him to respect them.

To be continued.


	4. Down the Literary Labyrinth

Mid-May, 1925.

 _What is that sound high in the air  
Murmur of maternal lamentation_

\- The Waste Land, T.S. Eliot

* * *

He had arrived at her door to request her presence in his pantry, professional as ever. Their private communications had naturally ceased in February when all was lost. But pressing issues would come up here and there, and soon their late night discussions recommenced with notable caution. Only the most urgent of issues would be raised.

And on that evening, something was troubling him, his knitted brow conveyed. But that wasn't what they spoke of in the early moments of their discussion inside her sitting room.

Their last private discussion was abandoned prematurely on account of, of all things, _Far From the Madding Crowd,_ a list of pressing household matters abandoned until the following day. Mrs. Hughes had begun to reread the novel recently, much to the mutual discomfort of both her and Mr. Carson. It was, after all, a story of a strong-headed woman rejecting the proposals of not one, but two good men, only to live a life of feigned independence as a working woman and self-imposed heartache until the unthinkable occurred.

But Hardy's words had imprinted a hazy vision on her imagination. She had to track them down to satiate her restless mind, if only to confirm she remembered it correctly. But she soon became ensnared once again.

She had once thought to compare her tribulations with Joe Burns to that of Bathsheba and her trio of men. But now the story resonated ever stronger as she fought against the feelings of obligation that came with the still unfinished business of the house she legally shared with Mr. Carson.

Day after day, Mr. Carson had displayed all appearances as the faithful Gabriel Oak. But the house business made her feel as Bathsheba to his Boldwood. Irrationally, she wondered on how to placate her guilt over ensnaring Mr. Carson with a full-hearted acceptance of his proposal. Mr. Carson never forced her to assent to wild promises of a marriage to be forged several years later like farmer Boldwood. But her own guilt, like Bathsheba's, was present and gnawing.

Elsie Hughes made a pact to herself to never hint at her still lingering feelings, for she continued think of him as a very dear man, despite the events which now barred her from telling him. But she would not bother him with her vacillation, vowing instead to keep their associations as professional and as amicable as possible.

Arresting all hopes of their previous nightcap was the fact that Mr. Carson spied the novel on her desk one evening, a bookmark placed in its middle. He knew the story all too well, and soon found himself begging off for the night, finding the family's copy of the book in the library. Precious sleep was lost with each page revisited, that evening and the nights that followed.

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He used to regard himself as Alice Neal's own Gabriel Oak, determined to not machinate some strange set of events as Boldwood endeavored so she would return to him after all those years. That Alice would never return smarted him when he was younger, and he berated himself for rehashing the incident, for wallowing in that past. But he became a futurist, however minutely, when he put his past with Alice and Grigg to rest, that he could concede. But upon his perusal of passages he used to gloss over, he found himself able to identify with desperate Boldwood even while acknowledging his mania.

Charles Carson now knew the feeling of anxiety coursing through his veins on the eve he hoped to secure his beloved's hand in marriage. He now knew what it felt to glimpse upon a wedding ring, his mother's, and contemplate the presumed thread of the ring's future history with Elsie Hughes. He knew the disturbance love can cause to a placid exterior, the volcano building within as love and desire mingle with the promise of a future with a beautiful woman is tentatively secured.

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Fortunately for Mr. Carson, the renewed agony caused by merely looking at the novel on her desk did not occur that night. Instead, he spied another book had taken its place on Mrs. Hughes's desk.

Altered for the worse by her return to the land of Thomas Hardy, she sought a diversion in a story Mr. Carson had surprisingly enjoyed, _The 39 Steps_. It was a welcome change of pace, full of excitement that laced their own voices that night as household matters were temporarily shelved as a discussion item.

It was a magical moment, a moment outside of time where their awkward status of their association fell to the wayside. For all they needed to discuss, household business for their Crawleys, as well as their own house, they clinged to talk of the pacing and descriptions of the protagonist hiding out in Scotland that had delighted them both. They spoke of him stumbling through brambles, courting disaster at every turn.

But she had yet to finish it, and their awkwardness had both fallen away and heightened in those moments she regarded Mr. Carson's enthusiasm fighting with his attempt to not reveal the final resolution.

He was beautiful, leaning forward, one hand rounding about his bent knee while the other gracefully sliced through the air to underscore his point. His eyebrows telegraphed wondrous things and she nearly gasped at how the dear man captivated her, from his appearance, his sonorous tones, to his enjoyment of a good read that rivaled hers.

A moment passed, their eyes finally locking for a moment before she turned to set aside the slim volume that enraptured them both.

An unwielding truth made itself known to Elsie Hughes as she contemplated the novel: _All those years ago, this is how we crossed the divide between friendship and love._

Her eyes widened at the realization. It was then Elsie Hughes remembered herself, not as his betrothed but merely as his colleague.

Charles Carson observed an unidentified, internal struggle as he glanced back. His lips pursed at the way she stilled her smile and curled within herself all outward appearances of delight. Her turn inwards was complete when she diverted her gaze from his once more.

It was then that their conversation returned to their present tense, a fog of unease.

She reutilized the well-tread track for her eyes to address her now former-betrothed, developed long before they spoke of understandings, business or otherwise. Just a moment of direct focus on his face would be followed by a trailing glance towards the knot of his tie. It was a sacred place for her, where thoughts gathered and emotions tempered in the dying embers of the day.

Today, as the awkwardness returned, she thought of their house, the last unsettled matter of their disassociation as man and woman intended for each other. And for once she did not think only of settling their unresolved business. She saw them there, happy and unencumbered by doubts. She saw love in any easy embrace lit by the warm glow of the fireplace. She wondered if he imagined the same things, even now.

But his demeanor conveyed there was something still troubling him. Now that their relationship was strictly professional, it could only be just that remaining for explicit discussion. Inexplicitly, of course, much remained left unsaid.

In the weeks that followed that fateful evening, when he broke his own heart before her to let them walk away from their engagement, they both had remained the same professional individuals. But the man and woman beneath the surface had both began to mourn their loss, each in their own way.

Mr. Carson was becoming hypothermic, no doubt caused by his frequent, cleansing trips out into the crisp air of a sleepless night.

Unexpectedly for Mrs. Hughes, her mourning only led to heated, amorous thoughts. Thoughts of certain aspects of a couple being together, she realized, had simmered in the months prior to their understanding being made and unraveled. Concerns about him seeing her in the altogether remained, however. What was worse, she realized by now, was the sobering fact that those thoughts simmered still even as they were worlds apart, ensconced together inside his pantry.

Her day began quite early that morning from dreams in which her thoughts of them living closely together – breast to breast – heated to a boil.

But such thoughts could not be shared with him now – yet another secret kept to the shadows. It wasn't a matter of pride. It was more a matter of respect, strangely enough.

For he had never kissed her, never reached out for her to grasp her hand before they called things off. All that was left was his gallantry, and she did not wish to keep open the wound she apparently made on his tender heart. And so she kept her conversation congenial, her eyes kept to her well-worn track.

Mr. Carson, however, lacked the training of looking but not seeing her, at least not anymore. He could manage it above stairs, monitoring the family's needs effortlessly. But this oblique way of looking at her had begun that fateful evening when they called it quits. And he found it difficult to look her way, directly and as transparent as glass, again. For her eyes still captivated, her lips still entranced, but he could not disrespect her wishes nor could he simply never interact with her ever again.

And so he looked at her directly in the presence of others, addressed her professionally as she deserved to be treated, as she had earned to be addressed. He was not cold. But there was something decidedly absent – and he ensured its absence when they were alone by keeping his soulful eyes trained to the shadows, to the bit of wall beyond her shoulder, to her slightly messy desk.

And these near-misses were what made their nightcaps even possible. But even then, it was a test to his senses. For her entire being still made his body traitorous – his nose was as defenseless against her scent as his ears against her indulgent intonations.

Fortunately, the subject matter that remained for their nightcap had made their polite aloofness somewhat welcomed.

"I'm worried about his Lordship," he admitted.

She was slow to answer. They both were more deliberate in these past few weeks, marshaling reserves to ensure placid demeanors. "Whatever about?"

He felt a bit silly bringing it up. But he was loyal to a fault. He rolled his shoulder in discomfort.

"His indigestion, as it were."

"Indigestion?" His wincing at the memory of too many occurrences recently made her regard his entire being, not just her beachheads of safety. It alarmed her.

"It appears to be returning more frequently."

A silence augmented by the ticking clock descended for a moment, their small glasses held still.

Her eyes narrowed before she offered, "Perhaps Mrs. Patmore could re-introduce more dishes on the regimen his lordship kept to…" _before Christmas Eve_ , she thought before managing to state with the same strength, "last year."

Before she could think any further, Mr. Carson continued sharing his concerns. "I've thought of that, too," he admitted with a nod to the window overlooking the corridor shared with the kitchen.

"Do you mind broaching the subject with her?"

"I wouldn't mind at all."

"Thank you. It would put my mind at ease," he uttered, his very soul seeming to heave a small sigh of relief before he sipped another bit of port.

Later, much later, his countenance would still affect her – the transparent worry, the unceasing eyes on the stone floor, the strategies developed – small and unnoticeable to all but her – to ease a burden for the family they faithfully served.

But it didn't work for his lordship, not in the end. Neither he nor Carson could turn back time.

* * *

A/N 1: Many, many thanks to you all for sticking with me. I have to say, I tried not to derive too much pleasure in the hearts I broke with the previous chapter. I hope to prove your faith in me, in time.

A/N 2: Now, Elsie put a divide between friendship and love. I do not believe there is a divide, unless it is dividing romantic love from, say, agape. Under better circumstances, Elsie would likely recognize this. But, as we all know, both of the old boobies are quite altered at this point.


	5. The Evening of the Chamberlain Dinner

Friday, 29 May 1925.

 _After the torchlight red on sweaty faces  
After the frosty silence in the gardens  
After the agony in stony places  
The shouting and the crying  
Prison and palace and reverberation  
Of thunder of spring over distant mountains  
He who was living is now dead  
We who were living are now dying  
With a little patience_

\- The Waste Land, T.S. Eliot

* * *

The rumbling of Lord Chamberlain's motor was a morose bit of music to Charles Carson's ears. As the last member of the most infamous dinner party ever held at Downton departed into the dark of night, Charles Carson looked visibly flagged. The family was no doubt arriving at the hospital in a few moments to see to the ailing Lord Grantham. And in their wake, the butler finally caught the breath that was hard to come by since the moment his lordship went down in the dining room.

The evening had been steeped with preamble. So much was at stake for the dinner, with two tectonic plates attempting to pressure the other into a permissive state. The hospital and its fate were set to shift to one side, but the earthquake generated at dinner wrought results never contemplated by either force.

For Carson, standing that close to the epicenter only confirmed the shaking of the ground he felt a year before. But no one could have guessed the toll of such movement would take on Lord Grantham, much less his trusted butler.

Years before, a younger Charles Carson abnormally fixated on the Colchester earthquake of 1884. Few, if any lives, were lost and some reported its tremors actually reached Yorkshire. Regardless if it did, the steady stream of news from Essex was enough to keep a young Mr. Carson alarmed by the reports of churches, businesses, and houses in ruin. The foundation of an entire generation's way of life was well and truly altered in the span of mere moments.

The potential altering of Carson's way of life extended well beyond those first few moments in the dining room with his lordship prone on the carpet. Still, Carson was able to function - barely - guiding the household through those crucial minutes until the family was out the door. But he was visibly distressed – shaken to the core of his existence.

While he managed to keep the foundations shored at Downton, he was without the kind of support he longed to have as the husband of one Elsie Hughes. And after months of appearing unwavering in his personal strength, tonight, Charles Carson would keenly feel his internal foundations crumbling in the aftershocks following his lordship's collapse.

It was only a matter of time before Charles Carson would realize how close he was coming to falling from the precipice of his professional and personal lives.

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Mrs. Hughes had stood on the servant's side of the green baize door, listening for the telltale signs that the great house was without its lord and master. Nothing stirred for a long minute, and she soon found herself treading back through the servery to where the action took place that night.

Chairs were askew in the dining room, napkins abandoned without ceremony. As Mrs. Hughes advanced further into the room, his lordship's obvious place was set off by the bright red hue filtering through his water glass. Finally, she rounded the area to the spot where all hell broke loose.

The volume of blood was astounding to her. The tablecloth was ruined, and she knew it was of great importance to remove it as quickly as possible. The veneer of the table below shone as bright as glass, but nothing good could come from letting the blood seep through and steep upon it.

The white roses of the centerpieces did not escape the path of blood, and her eyes narrowed at the sight. But it was the specks that tinged the menu card that brought her thoughts into full perspective. Separating the card from the holder, a bit of his lordship's blood was trapped under her finger, and it smeared the parchment further. And while her prayers for his lordship were already sent heavenward that night, something even more urgent surged within her as she contemplated the penmanship of Charles Carson.

When he issued his orders to the staff downstairs, Mrs. Patmore was right. He had looked visibly shaken, and his left hand planted softly upon his waistcoat confirmed his affected state.

Her intense focus on the card was lost, for once, on Thomas Barrow. He had just entered the room from the servery. His renewed survey of his lordship's blood had sent his mind reeling in quite a different direction with a final destination of which the whole household would shockingly learn in a few short months. For now, it dulled his quick perception, which Mrs. Hughes could discern as she eyed him at the formal entrance to the dining room.

"Mr. Barrow," she prompted.

He did not register her, his unfocused stare remain trained on the aftermath before them both.

Though never a nurse, even she could sense the trauma lurking. Perhaps it would be best to leave him just for a moment. She would return soon enough.

Moving towards the main entrance to the room once, she focused upon the floor to observe if the hallway was similarly affected by the trail of blood in his lordship's wake. With Mr. Barrow's current state, she found it more appropriate to summon a hall boy or two to assist now that the family and their guests had left. Her maids were made of stern stuff, but she did not want a billowing Mr. Carson objecting to the notion of maids in the dining room at that moment.

But she stopped before completely exiting the room, pulled by her motherly instincts. Thomas had yet to move into the space.

"Thomas, are you alright, lad?"

It finally spurred him, only slightly. His head shook for a moment, clearing the growing cobwebs, before a grim smile was affixed. "Of course, Mrs. Hughes."

Unconvinced, she was gentle, for Thomas was never keen on being called a lad. "Will you have a few of the men assist you in moving the table and chairs? The rug must be taken up at once."

With a mechanical nod, he froze for a moment.

His observations returned to him, and the fact that her voice was half an octave higher made him pause.

"Are you alright, Mrs. Hughes?"

One lie was matched by another.

"Of course, Mr. Barrow."

He regarded her for just a moment more, unconvinced by her assurance, before exiting the room towards the servery. She hoped he would be kind when summoning Andy and Mr. Molesley for the task ahead. But something in his eyes made her pause near the doorway – the unfocused memory of them would trouble her in the days to come.

For now, quite a bit of work was left, and she turned on her heel to exit the main entrance of the dining room.

Not two feet into the hall, she nearly collided with Mr. Carson, still attempting to reaffix his brave façade for the sake of the family and the staff. The feeling that plagued him, though he could not name it in the moments following his lordship's collapse, was a keen need to hold on to something solid and steady and never let go. Until he realized that, he would feel eternally bereft.

And even then, he might not return to normal.

Something profound and fragile lit his eyes. It made her own widen as she staggered back slightly with a deep breath. That neither of them moved to awkwardly apologize was somehow progress over the last few months.

"Mr. Barrow is assembling some help to move the table and pull up the carpet."

A nod of acknowledgment was all he could manage. Too many thoughts were colliding at once with her standing so close.

"I'll be back in a moment, but you should wait in your pantry for any calls from the hospital. I will take care of this."

"You shouldn't have to," he countered.

"Nonsense, Mr. Carson. Have a cup of coffee and wait by the telephone. And close your door." She did not say why, but her eyes could not keep from expressing the concern that nearly directed her to comfort him with a brief grasp of his forearm.

Breathing deeply to let the compulsion reside, she knew she should not delay him the respite he so desperately needed.

The breath that composed her only unsettled him further. Instead of pulling his hands close to his waistcoat, his hands rattled at his side - trembling with a growing need to find solace inside her embrace.

But it was not the time to act on that thought. The moment had passed months ago, that much he knew, despite the need he felt.

Only her continued attention to her duties reminded him of his own. Some could have characterized her diverted focus towards the carpets unfeeling at such a time. But what Charles Carson needed until there was additional news was to cling to what he knew best – his role as butler.

Grateful for her watchful eye to be diverted from him for a moment, he clung to her example while heading towards the green baize door. His faltering gait soon transitioned into the dignified steps of Carson, butler of Downton Abbey.

When he reached downstairs, his façade buoyed those that eyed him from the Servant's Hall before he calmly and quietly shut his pantry door. Yet no one witnessed him lean against it from the other side before the phone finally rang much later.

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When she finally entered the Servant's Hall for a break, it warmed Mrs. Hughes to see their staff huddled closely together near the fireplace. It made it easier for her to focus on them, instead of the man for whom her heart increasingly ached. It would do no good staring at the doors of his pantry, her face only hinting at the conflict within that split her attentions between his lordship and Mr. Carson.

What's more, she needed to join the ranks of their staff. Even if it was just the wordless sharing of a cuppa as the clock ticked onwards, it mattered.

Mrs. Hughes was dedicated to her several cups of tea throughout the day. But, that evening, she welcomed the distraction of the coffee - the aroma and the assault on her palette. Each sip was deliberate, every thought concentrated on it.

In many ways, she had Mr. Carson to thank for that concentration. He focused on carrying on when things were rough, even when it drove her nearly mad. While the thought of balancing accounts filled her with dread, she longed to tidy the linens.

There was something comforting about that kind of work - the tactile nature of it, the fragrance of the linens, the warmth on a cooler day. And while there was always a right way and a wrong way to fold them, she could do it while her mind was elsewhere. Without such a distraction, she kept her eyes to the horizon, her sips measured as the clock ticked onwards into the night.

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The shrill cry of the banshee was silenced before the first telephone ring was completed. No doubt, the butler was being informed of the news they so desperately sought. The few that had been witness to his lordship's collapse were less than optimistic in those last few moments before the news finally came.

The hall teemed with tension as they waited, breaths drawn as the silence grew ever deafening. It was a wonder that some of the staff did not jump out of their chairs at the sound of a door handle rotating and a door swinging open.

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She struggled to concentrate on his words.

 _He's resting... He has a good chance._

Mr. Carson's expression cracked then, the reserve gave way to what appeared to be relief. And in that moment, his expression brought her some sense of peace.

The staff had breathed a collective breath at the belief that Lord Grantham was still with them. And she was grateful for their diligence in carrying out their duties for the family, for Mr. Carson's sake more than her own.

Now that the news was shared, the tired lot headed to sleep while Mrs. Hughes was quick to follow Mr. Carson towards his pantry.

"I'm so relieved," she admitted while following his retreating form.

Navigating the doorway into his pantry, she managed a muted, winsome smile, befitting what she thought was his mood. She had seen him earlier in the evening, and that memory kept her concerned for his well being.

He finally turned to her with a befuddled expression indicating he hadn't heard her admission, much less her heels echoing on the floor behind him.

"I'm so glad," she continued, her eyes shining with emotion.

He was strangely grateful for the desk that now separated them. "As am I."

She thought to comfort him, with a nod to the good things that can come with progress and the onward march of time. "It's a wonder what doctors can do, nowadays, even in the darkest hours."

He stood tall, yet altered, a long blink indicating that he was not as relieved as he appeared. The moment stretched as he looked towards the clock on his mantle, a pitiful smile failing to hold back his sobering expression.

"After tonight, perhaps you've won me over to the side of progress, Mrs. Hughes."

Her thoughts from long ago echoed in her mind. He's a terrible liar.

Her eyes blinked rapidly at him, unconsciously and yet so beguilingly, before they moved on. She finally registered the late hour once her eyes rested on the mantle clock.

Her perusal afforded him the opportunity to swallow and close his eyes painfully. He could never resist her fluttering eyes, the achingly sincere and alluring depth to them, especially this late at night.

"I'll wait up for the return of Lady Mary and Lady Edith," he finally managed, having found the open ledger on his desk now thoroughly fascinating. His hand discretely rested on the desk, steadying him and keeping him from acting on a burgeoning need to run out into the night, or worse, straight into her arms.

"I'll be next door as you do," she assured, almost out the door.

"There's no need, Mrs. Hughes." His voice stopped her in her tracks. It was breathless, almost, as if he were grasping for more air. But he looked himself, not winded, only weary. His hand resting awkwardly on the desk's surface as he attempted to smoothly sit in his chair only reaffirmed her decision to stay up a bit more.

"Perhaps there is not, Mr. Carson," she fibbed, yet again, for the sake of someone else's well being. "But I couldn't possibly sleep now with the amount of coffee I consumed."

He was clipped in his initial response. "Just so," he declared, growing more polite after inwardly cringing at the sound of his own expression. "Thank you for letting me know."

She frowned a grim smile, one that befit his mood and hid her inner concerns. Calmly exiting, she walked with a deliberately subdued gait before standing stock still in the middle of the room. Her eyes closed almost unwillingly at the strong pull of something quite out of sorts from Mr. Carson.

Something else was in his eyes, his voice, his departure from the perfect posture she associated with the proud man. But divining his thoughts from her former betrothed remained a distracting and difficult task. Only the sorting of the rotas could possibly compete with her concern for the butler next door. But that distraction would only last for a moment.

=C+E= C+E= C+E= C+E= C+E=

Save for the butler and housekeeper, nearly all of the staff went to bed shortly after the cheering news was shared. They managed to stay separately occupied until the Crawley daughters returned from the hospital. She had heard him climb the stairs long ago, which alarmed her given that he was usually keen to head back down after the house was secured under his key.

But Mrs. Patmore had mentioned the butler ventured out into the night in the past few months. Mrs. Hughes frowned at the thought, both at him being out in the cold and the fact she had been unaware of this new development.

The thought soon had her on her feet, teacup and saucer in hand. She retrieved the errant cup on Mr. Carson's desk before heading to the darkened kitchen. Making quick work of the soaking, her breathing became irregular as his unmistakable footsteps grew louder on the staircase. His cadence altered from the stairs to the floor, growing oddly quicker.

For some reason, she did not think to alert him of her presence. He was quick with the lights in his office, the shutting of his doors. And before he turned to climb the stairs and head to his room in the attics, utter turmoil filled the lines of his expressive face as he gazed unfocused at the Servant's Hall.

Mrs. Hughes stood by in the darkness - a tense breath drawn close to her breast as she remained immobile. Mr. Carson swayed alarmingly in the hallway, caught at a crossroads between the attic and somewhere beyond.

With a sway of his large arm, he turned abruptly around, giving no thought to the open door of the housekeeper's sitting room before heading out the backdoor.

Mrs. Hughes was beyond concerned, exhaling with a start. _Perhaps he needs a moment without the eyes of a thousand faces trained on him._ She didn't begrudge him that feeling.

But something Mrs. Patmore surmised early on in the maelstrom had struck her. _There is a man who's been shaken to the roots of his soul. Everything he's based his life on has proved mortal after all._

She bit her lower lip in worried contemplation. Despite where they stood with one another, uneasy and separate, her concern for his well-being never wavered. That had settled into her nurturing heart long ago, well before what she felt for him was recognized as romantic love.

And what concerned her now was not just his immediate reaction to tonight's events, nor Mrs. Patmore's prophetic observation. It was something she attempted to defuse a year before with a joke that hardly landed with the sometimes stoic butler.

When she thought on it later, she was surprised how he tried to reconcile a truth she often shared with him.

 _The nature of life is not permanence, but flux._

In the span of a few moments, he had attempted to transcend a very real concern to him – that everything he held dear would be tested.

And she had laughed it off with a joke on his choice of words. _Just so, even if it does sound faintly disgusting._

Now, now she felt a keen sense of remorse and disquiet as she stood in waiting. A tremor of agitation rippled through her, propelling her to pace before the back door that led to the man she so longed to comfort.

The moments ticked by interminably. Though not given to such beliefs on most occasions, Elsie Hughes searched metaphorically for a sign. Surely, by pacing in the hallway that spanned their offices, she could divine a clear signal for assisting Mr. Carson in his hour of need.

And as she turned for the seventh time to stare down the back door, she found her sign.

* * *

A/N 1: it's vacay time for me, so reply a to reviews may be a bit delayed. But that does not mean I don't appreciate every single one that I receive, including guest reviews. They make my day. I hope to post Chapter 6 in a few days. Thank you for your patience.

A/N 2: I have to say, rewatching S5ep1 on the heels of watching S6ep5 (The Red Dinner) and the burst ulcer scene in which talk of change dominated the discussion - I honestly cursed Fellowes as loudly as I could manage. Remember when so many of us were confused by the "flux joke" that Mrs. Hughes attempted? Was it really a joke about change, or indigestion, or acid reflex, and IDK - FORESHADOWING ABOUT A BURST ULCER? EFF YOU FELLOWES. /rant.


	6. The Heart of Light, the Silence

Friday-Saturday, 29-30 May 1925.

 _Yet when we came back, late, from the Hyacinth garden,  
Your arms full, and your hair wet, I could not  
Speak, and my eyes failed, I was neither  
Living nor dead, and I knew nothing,  
Looking into the heart of light, the silence._

\- The Waste Land, T.S. Eliot

* * *

Crossing carefully across the yard, she paused at the top of the stairs that led towards the drive. Her progress halted inside the hedge as she soon became entranced. A blanket of stars and a sea of fine pebbles separated her from the man she needed to comfort, the man she increasingly knew she needed.

How far they had come and gone since Brighton. All at once, her offered hand had been both a trifling and a dare, a dare imbued with the promise and consequences of bringing their unnamed and undelineated relationship out of the shadows. Armed only with her good heart and secret longing, she was determined to venture back into the darkness after their detachment was resoundingly settled. What outcome she sought, however, was anyone's guess.

The night air fluttered uneasily across her cheeks as she bent her head in prayer. _God, give me strength and give him comfort_.

Though it was mildly cool out, she was grateful for the sign in her hands, a legitimate reason for her intrusion - a certain butler's overcoat.

Her destination was both unfixed yet certain as she drifted forward past the front door, rounded the corner of the small library. Although she could not see him, she grew more certain by the moment that Charles Carson had found a haven on the bench under the Lebanon Cedar. She only hoped he would not object, much less welcome, her intrusion with the offering of his overcoat.

On any other day, the branches of the great cedar would nearly brush the locks of his greyed hair given his regal bearing. But that night, she found him in quite a different state. He was still standing, yet hunched, his hands clenched at this side.

She would have thought he'd heard her treading across the track for at least a minute or so. But his casual, alarmingly defeated posture seemed to told her otherwise.

He knew that it was her, had heard her distinctive cadence well before she finally came into his peripheral vision. Too flagged by the events of the day, he wasn't moved to straighten to a ramrod stance. And while their emotional stance with one another was miles apart, he could not be moved to hide his malaise as she settled in by his side.

"I came to hand you your overcoat," she remarked, hoping that he would believe her. She thought her lack of an overcoat signaled her apparent lack of intent to linger long, a wordless and helpful indication to the troubled man.

Mr. Carson was silent as she placed the article into is hands, circumspect of her ways.

He stood awkwardly for a moment, the overcoat limp in his hands, his eyes tilted downward momentarily. There was a transparent yet impervious wall between them, it would seem. Any hope of providing some comfort seemed fleeting as he continued his contemplation of the starry night.

But Mrs. Hughes could not leave him be, could not simply appraise him and assume he would return with her. His shallow breaths were unnerving, and she could not help but wonder if he was quickly losing ground in his battle against time, against the changes that had befallen his ordered way of living.

His unending concern for her finally broke through the stalemate inside. He became aware of her own lack of an overcoat and his concern went beyond his lordship, beyond an amorphous concern about the house.

His voice cut through the night, hoarse from emotion and not the crisp air. "You should go back inside."

"In a moment, when you're ready."

Turning back towards the gardens, he inhaled once more, taking in the faint perfume of it. He was nothing if not decided in his altered state, revealing far more than he probably realized.

"I won't be ready for some time."

Insistent yet measured, she fretted with a soft voice, "You'll catch your death."

His eyes sharply on her then, Mrs. Hughes started slightly at his thunderous expression. His eyes did not meet hers, but it didn't matter. It was nothing compared to the quick and painful assault of words.

"You didn't take well to someone minding after you when you needed it the most. What makes you think I would?

She swallowed a comment, her eyes cast down, blinking rapidly. Tears began to form despite her resolve.

To him, the silent shake of her head was was somehow worse than any formal reply. He turned away, staring down the darkness.

"I'm sorry, Mrs. Hughes. That was unforgivable." Even from her vantage point, she could discern contrition coloured his face. But it was his voice that defused any rising ire.

She sighed. "You're forgiven, considering the circumstances."

He was weary - her proximity at the height of his apparent need could elicit nothing else. Despite their situation, despite his need to subsume his desire for her, no one, no place, no time of day could inspire the tranquility he found in the space by her side.

Tranquility was what he needed more than anything else at that moment. And with one eye trained on hers, his soul spoke to hers, just as it always did. And, for once, her own misgivings did not interfere with her receipt of his silent, profound communication.

Silently, she stood next to him, eyeing the coat expectantly. "I brought the coat for you."

"And you came out here to watch after me without one."

"That wasn't my intent, Mr. Carson."

"Then what was your intent?"

She did not answer him, her face froze. Words lurked but did not present themselves quickly. Suppressing everything for so long had its disadvantages.

With so many months of her silence, he let it go. But words would have to come from Elsie Hughes, at some point. That she keenly understood.

"I've never witnessed anything like that," he admitted, his mind clearly on the the events in the dining room.

"It must have been a shock," she offered.

"A shock, an alarm, a nightmare," he admitted before trailing off.

"But he will be alright. Perhaps not tomorrow, but soon."

"But will he ever be the same - will Downton ever be the same?"

The immediate question was clear enough for her. "His lordship might not move about the estate so much. But does that change an entire household," she asked with a hint to what her own answer would be.

But the lingering question underneath, will Charles Carson ever be the same, that was much more difficult to answer.

And so she kept to what she knew so well - the care of others. "His lordship will not be helped by one or both of us being taken ill."

His shoulders slumped at that. "Not just his lordship," he revealed, mutedly. Of course her statement applied beyond his lordship, but something in his voice told her there was more.

He moved towards the bench, absently placing his overcoat on the armrest nearest to the walking path, settling upon the frigid slats as if the weight of the world compelled him there. And when she moved to join him on the side nearest to the path, Mrs. Hughes secured the overcoat over their laps, sitting tensely yet companionably on the bench that heard many a tale over the years.

With a visible swallow and a clenched jaw, an admission tumbled forth. "I… overheard something I shouldn't have."

Her eyes were sharp upon him then.

"Lady Mary and Mr. Branson were in the hall when she returned upstairs. They agreed that they will need to take full responsibility for all the decisions, with his lordship only pressed for more significant issues."

It was clear this phased him, having seen first-hand how Lord Grantham's father was similarly treated when his mind betrayed him in his final years. But Robert Crawley was not similarly afflicted, not now. And the shared conclusion between eldest daughter and son-in-law had considerable implications. Yet Mrs. Hughes was not as troubled - surprised, but not incapable of adapting.

"All will be well, Mr. Carson. His lordship is surrounded by good counsel - his daughters, his son-in-law, and his wife. And you will guide them, as well."

Even the word seem to startle them both - _wife_. And it brought the lingering concern of the evening, the past few months, back to the forefront.

His response was absent as he contemplated the tumult of emotions. "I will help where I'm wanted."

Silence settled in uneasily as they stared out into the darkness, the starlit sky. But she could not help but spy his tortured expression from the corner of her eye.

With his eyes opened, he fervently searched the faint outline of the stone wall at the entrance to the gardens. Her ladyship enjoyed a turn out there on warmer nights when the sun had not quite set. But all he could envision was the events in the dining room. In all his years in service of the family, he had never heard his lordship articulate more plainly his devotion to his wife.

 _If this is it, just know that I have loved you very, very much._

And what struck Carson the most was the fact that he could never say such things to his own beloved following their uneasy separation.

His eyes closed at the painful thought, but the onslaught of his feelings did not subside. The strange mix of adrenaline and lack of sleep must have altered him, for then he seemed to daydream of Mrs. Hughes in her bedroom, cold to the touch. Death had come to her in her sleep, quite suddenly and without warning. His mind's eye soon found him noting the year in a book that great houses like Downton kept of their servants - a book that no one would likely ever read.

 _30 May 1925. Mrs. Elsie Hughes, head housekeeper, passed away in her sleep._

Nothing about the notation gave any indication to the formal attachment he had fervently hoped to form with her. Nothing would hint at how his heart would be buried with hers at her internment.

His eyes opened with a start at the thought, his lungs desperately filling as he struggled to maintain composure, to warm himself as a chill went down his spine. Too many nightmares during the time in which Mrs. Hughes awaited the outcome of her test had resulted in much the same.

He was helpless then and now, and the reality of it made his head shake violently, the continued result of his foundations continuing to crumble. He thought shaking his head would clear away his maudlin thoughts. But it only darkened his outlook as he continued to stare out into the night.

And while he sat visibly distressed, Mrs. Hughes was painfully paralyzed, knowing full well she couldn't reach out to him as she did on the evening of Lady Sybil's death. She new she shouldn't reach for any reason, not anymore, chaste or otherwise.

And after months of glimpses into the aftereffects of her paralysis, she could see the damage it wrought upon them both.

A chasm divided them upon that bench.

Yet, from the depths of that divide, the compulsion to reach out, to feel and be felt, somehow lingered. Perhaps it always would call them to its banks. But only their resolves could will them to overcome the space between.

Despite their unease now, the conviction with which she offered her hand in Brighton never wavered. And what they needed in their intimate and charged space between their obligations to the house and the rest of the world, was to feel steady, if only for a moment.

Wordlessly, her right hand emerged from beneath his warm overcoat, palm upturned, elbow extended towards the man she needed to steady to find tranquility in her own heart.

He tilted his head only slightly, contemplating her offered hand as if the world would turn on their hands touching. A world of possibility was revealed to him when their hands joined on that Brighton beach. He had thought that world was closed to them now.

But it did not stop his treacherous dreams. Her soft skin, his hopeful attitude, were not faded memories. They were moments away, if he would allow it.

He swallowed painfully at the thought, his weary, wounded heart competing with the desires and hopes that somehow lingered.

The fear of the unknown compelled him to reach out towards her upturned hand. And he wondered vaguely if he would ever recover when their hands touched, once again.

Reflexive fingers mingled together with hers, assuring himself that this was, indeed, not a dream. And she fought against her raging heart as he bent his head and closed his eyes tightly.

"Is this wise, Mrs. Hughes?"

Blinking rapidly, she thought in silence. But the truth, for once, was finally at the ready.

"I couldn't say."

She did not look at him directly, her eyes focused on their joined hands. After months of indecision and separation, the strength she found in their tangible connection spurred her onward. "But I made you a promise, a long time ago. I meant it then and I mean it now."

How the light caught his expressive eyes when he turned to survey her countenance. An expanse of emotions were exposed - raw, pleading, questioning. And after months of not fully looking her in the eye, her own insecurities had subsided enough for her to begin to see it - love he could not hide and from which she could not shy away.

Without another thought, his hand moved to fully encapsulate hers as his thumb rubbed softly along hers. And the warmth it stirred went far beyond her fingers.

For the first time in hours, his expression was not riddled with barely-contained hysteria. His chest flooded and emptied with air, but it was not to calm himself. It was adrenaline caused by them and them alone.

Something in the embers of their courtship was stirring, igniting a longing in them both.

Months of indecision and no physical affection, months of silent mourning and confusion were figments of their imaginations in that moment.

The only matter of consequence was the way the light entranced them both, the way the breeze stirred around them to bring them ever closer together. No thoughts of lost chances plagued them nor did the consequences of leaping towards a second opportunity. All that mattered was a deep-seated need to hold and be held, his face buried in her hair, her cheek against his broad shoulder.

But it was not meant to be.

A peal of laughter in the near distance halted Mr. Carson's measured progress towards Mrs. Hughes.

The sudden shift in attention alarmed her. But she soon followed his redirected gaze beyond her left shoulder, and soon found herself observing the return of Mr. Molesley and Miss Baxter from the hospital.

Mrs. Hughes had not seen nor heard them upon Lady Mary and Lady Edith's return. Nor had Mr. Carson mentioned their whereabouts. And now that omission snuffed whatever stirred embers that were rekindling their ill-fated romance.

Their silence ensured they remained undetected in the shadows as the lady's maid and footman passed sedately by in the distance. And while the butler and housekeeper would eventually return undisturbed to the back door, every footstep was punctuated by silence, riddled with introspection, flagged by alarm.

Even though they returned to the house together, alone - nothing could rekindle what had started before.

And all at once, confusion reigned, once more.

To be continued.


	7. The Third Companion

Sunday, 7 June 1925, the day before the house is opened to the public to raise funds for the hospital.

 _Who is the third who walks always beside you?  
When I count, there are only you and I together  
But when I look ahead up the white road  
There is always another one walking beside you  
Gliding wrapt in a brown mantle, hooded  
I do not know whether a man or a woman  
_— _But who is that on the other side of you?_

\- The Waste Land, T.S. Eliot

* * *

Seeing Mr. Branson in the churchyard that morning had been a surprise. Mrs. Hughes had some time to think on it, not enamored with the homily that morning.

He had turned up at the big house, quite unexpectedly a few weeks before, a homesick and exhausted Miss Sybbie in tow. After dreaming of a new life in America, every haunting dream while living in Boston seemed to call him back to Downton.

Mrs. Hughes had missed him, and she didn't mind admitting it to him when came downstairs a few days after his return to discuss things over tea. Plain and simple, he confessed he bitterly missed his life at Downton, his friends below and above stairs.

Her introspection at church that morning led to the conclusion that Mr. Branson had a way of showing small gestures of support for the Crawley women, beginning with the young daughter that stole his heart all those years ago. For the endlessly gracious Lady Grantham, Mr. Branson provided his arm that morning as they weaved about the fellow church attendees before ushering her towards the car to return to his lordship's convalescent bed at Downton.

But Mr. Branson did not join the woman on her return, choosing to provide opaque but positive updates on his lordship's health until he reached the next damsel he discerned was in distress, not that she would ever see it that way.

"Mrs. Hughes, do you a fancy a ride back to Downton? Lady Grantham asked me to discuss a few things with you concerning household business."

Mrs. Patmore shot a surprised look at Mrs. Hughes before shuffling towards the small congregation of Daisy, Mr. Mason, Andrew, and Mr. Carson.

"Of course, Mr. Branson."

What Mrs. Patmore observed and Mrs. Hughes failed to notice was the conflicted gaze of Charles Carson.

That his jaw clenched as his eyes displayed the remnants of his deep-seated longing was a vision that remained with the cook on her walk back to Downton.

* * *

With little fanfare, Tom Branson chose the backroads to Downton, having spent plenty of time determining the unique personality of each small lane.

Since his return to Downton, he had observed the butler and housekeeper whenever he could. There was little chance to see them together, now that he worked above stairs. But he had the letters from Lady Mary, which had brought him great joy, confirming the pair intended to wed. And all at once, there were murmurings, here and there, that the attachment was more a matter of business than matrimony. After all, they still had their house. But Tom Branson had put a quiet stop to any speculation about the relationship upon his return from Boston. They were private people, and he intended to keep their affairs just that, despite not knowing whether the rumors, of business over affairs of the heart, were true.

But Tom had seen each separately, her in the mornings before he departed to his office, and Carson every day at mealtimes. They seemed no different in their attentiveness to the family. But the darkness under their eyes, ever present, cast a cloud over their countenances.

And so he drove towards a lane on the farther reaches of the Crawley's holdings immediately surrounding Downton Abbey. It was one he thought was well-suited for introspection and observations.

Mrs. Hughes was a bit surprised to find herself on this adventure. But the change in routine was not unwelcome, for now.

"What is this household business, Mr. Branson?"

He couldn't lie to her, his downstairs champion, not for long. "Oh, well, there's not any, not really."

"Mr. Branson?"

"Well, Mrs. Hughes, I didn't want to appear improper by asking to taking you out for a drive."

"That does sound scandalous," she laughed in response, looking towards him and his boyish, charming smile as he drove.

"Sounds, yes. But I thought you could do with a change of scenery."

She blinked then, her eyes training the changing scenery before them before recovering diplomatically, "That is thoughtful of you, Mr. Branson."

He found a small, flat surface near the road, an area apparently not suited for farming. Soon, he was outside the now quiet car and ushering Mrs. Hughes to a small stone wall and the vista before it.

The big house was mostly obscured before them, somehow always looming in the distance. But the brilliant repetition of green fields of varying blocks of hues, was both unexpected and familiar – a feeling of being at home in Downton and Scotland simultaneously.

"I don't think I've ever seen this vantage point, Mr. Branson. It's lovely."

"It is. It's one of the advantages of being the agent, I suppose – being able to find these little spots in between each farm."

"It's not what you wanted initially, to be the agent."

He leaned against the wall then, marveling at the countryside that had become a part of him. "No, not really. But, people can change. And I was afraid, at the start. The task was monumental – it still is."

She did not lean upon the stone wall, herself, but her thoughts certainly mirrored his.

"I thought that, too, when I first became housekeeper. I still do. But it's more a matter of living up to your potential. His lordship certainly believes in you, and Lady Mary, of course."

"They do, and for that I am grateful."

They were silent for a time, and Mr. Branson tried not to fidget too much in his silent search for the right words.

"But people can change – Downton can change them, I think."

"For better," she agreed, before adding realistically, "or worse."

Humming in agreement, he stalled for a moment longer. And each moment of silence seemed to confirm for Mrs. Hughes the ultimate purpose of the visit.

"Can I ask you something, Mrs. Hughes?"

Though she knew what was to come, it was still assured to be a trying conversation. And the recent events, both in the household and with Mr. Carson, had only made things more confusing. But she couldn't discuss them with her dearest friend, couldn't impose upon Mrs. Patmore's goodwill with this anymore. She had sworn off that sort of thing entirely after the cook served as an impartial third party to the conversation that brought their engagement to an end.

"Of course, Mr. Branson." Her words did not betray her foresight of the conversation's ultimate purpose. But her expression was knowing, weary, even.

"What happened, between you and Mr. Carson?"

She couldn't stifle her sharp, audible intake of breath at the impertinent question despite knowing it was coming. How many weeks had she managed to go without being queried on this of all things. But it was here, and in the end, she was relieved to have Mr. Branson broach the issue.

"I don't mean to press," he continued. "The news of your engagement surprised me, but only initially."

"I'm not sure what's to say," she began with a furrowed brow.

"Then forgive me, it was impertinent."

"No, well – yes, it was impertinent," she remarked a ghost of a fond glance graced her features. "But I'll try to answer, as best I can, anyway."

The spire of Downton was still visible to her, seemingly invading her thoughts. And so she turned away from it, leaning gently on the worn stone behind her. Mr. Branson had the presence of mind to stay still, to afford her the semblance of privacy as she contemplated the tattered ends of a relationship that seemed to have ended far too soon.

"We became engaged on Christmas Eve, which was as much as shock to me as anyone, I can assure you."

He smiled at that. "You hadn't any inkling he was going to propose?"

"There was nothing definitive before that evening that tipped me off. But later, I realized there were signs. We'd started looking at properties to buy together late in the summer, strictly as an investment, he'd said. Yet the things he was considering were far too rich for my blood – nothing quite as grand as Downton, of course," she chuckled before sobering.

"So, I said I couldn't join him on such a venture, and I thought the idea had run its course. But it hadn't, apparently – he kept looking on his own, which he eventually told me. But he told me on Christmas Eve that the house he'd purchased had both of our names on it. The house was to be for us both – for us to share, one day, together. It was a nice idea, a dream."

"It does sound like a nice idea. And it has potential," Mr. Branson confided, having been consulted on their plans and how to enlist the estate workers on the renovations.

"Yes, it still does. We'll use it as a guest house," she articulated with false conviction, mindful of the fact that the business with their house was still not settled.

"And if or when either one of us retires, then we'll sort it out," she tried to assure herself without dwelling on the years spent alone, not living as closely as two people could, before that moment arrived. _And there's the expense, his expense for what should be my share_ , she reminded herself, as if she could forget her status as a near pauper.

But the conversation and her inner thoughts had meandered, and they both knew it.

"But that was before you became engaged."

"It was," she conceded, acknowledging his unspoken question: what happened during the engagement?

"As for during, and now, after…," she began before trailing off.

"You don't have to tell me," he offered, very much contrite after having the well-intentioned gall to begin the conversation.

She turned to face Downton again, leaning now on the low, stone wall, staring down the spire in the distance with a squint before gazing unfocused on the crops swaying in the breeze before them.

Her voice was just above a whisper, nearly mingling with the song of swaying crops.

"It was fear."

He thought on it for a moment, calculating incorrectly. "Mr. Carson fears change. Perhaps being married was too much on top of thinking of retirement and purchasing a house."

She had to smile, grimly, at his assumption that revealed his thoughts about the butler and housekeeper. On any other matter, Mr. Branson was right to assume things as he did.

"You misunderstand, Mr. Branson. It wasn't his fear that got in the way of things. It was mine – my fear. Only mine," she emphatically confessed. Her head tilted in defeat and relief.

Mr. Branson was taken aback. For the woman next to him was a fierce protector, fearless in the face of opposition, quiet and stern while protecting those for whom she cared.

Fear was not a word he associated with Mrs. Elsie Hughes. But perhaps he should, for her protectiveness prevented so many harms because she must have feared the outcome if she did not. Perhaps fear was at her side more often that most people realized, even herself.

"But if your fears were well-founded, then perhaps it's all for the best," he offered, suspending his disbelief at the thought. Mrs. Hughes and Mr. Carson were kind people, with a connection that was undeniable to even the most casual of observers.

"That's the point, though. I thought they were well-founded. But now," she began before inhaling and exhaling sharply.

The few moments she spent with Mr. Carson on the bench could not be ignored. Something still lingered between them that went well beyond heartache. But with that awareness, it did not make things easier.

Since February, she had uneasily set out into a wilderness, far away from the path Mr. Carson offered her - a full marriage. And while it was not a path of leisure, for marriage would never be easy, it was one she wondered if he would want to travel anymore. She wondered if she cut through the brush that separated them now, if he would still be standing there. But so much was left to be done to make it that far. Did she want to endure the risk of the unknown?

Her eyes were filled with the pain of her aching heart. "Now, I'm not so sure."

It had felt so good to have him at her side, to let fear fall away for a split second, but only just. She breathed sharply.

"Now, I wonder if I'm a silly, old woman."

"Well we can't have that, Mrs. Hughes. You're neither silly, nor old."

"Well, I'm not young, Mr. Branson," she countered with a raised brow.

"And you're entitled to fear the changes that come with marriage – at any age."

She acknowledged him wordlessly with a grimacing smile, but she did not meet his eye. Her silence was troubled, filled by frustration with herself.

"What did you fear?"

Everything stilled in her, save for the rapid escalation of her pulse. But, Mr. Branson wouldn't judge her, not after all they endured together.

"I feared what married life might involve."

Tom Branson could hardly believe his ears, at first. But if he'd ever known a man dedicated to the pursuit of propriety, it was Charles Carson.

"I see." It was inadequate. He knew that, but he couldn't help it.

Despite his unease, Tom Branson's heartstrings pulled for his downstairs champion. Shutting his eyes tightly, he thought of that awkward business with Edna Braithwaite, Mrs. Hughes's fearsome defense of him despite knowing he may have acted less than honorably. He trudged onwards.

She turned back to lean heavily on the stone wall, needing every support available. "There were no declarations, you see. We became engaged, St. Valentine's passed before I knew it, and it wasn't clear where we stood with each other."

"He never kissed you, then."

"No, but..." Her voice trailed off, leaving much unsaid for a time as Mr. Carson's intent stare in the moonlight left her with the belief that he very well could have kissed her on that bench.

"But he did eventually say he wanted a real marriage, a true marriage in every sense, not a lie."

Tom was conflicted.

On one hand, he was impressed that Carson was brave enough, clear enough in his intentions. He didn't want a companion, he wanted a romantic partner, and what better partner to find than the spirited Mrs. Hughes?

On the other hand, how did such a declaration end with Mrs. Hughes and Mr. Carson in a disbanded engagement?

"But what did you want, Mrs. Hughes? Surely you had some discussion on the matter."

"Not… we didn't quite get there. I was conflicted, you see. I wasn't sure I was…" Her eyes squeezed shut, the awkwardness of their conversation almost overcoming her need to share these thoughts outside her own mind.

Exhaling sharply, she trudged on. "Before his declaration, I wasn't sure I was… wanted as a wife in the truest sense, that I was prepared to live as a wife… in the truest sense."

Her confession awkwardly settled between them, for he knew such words were not easily said for someone as private as Mrs. Hughes. When the dust settled on that day, he would later recall the odd sensation of being compelled to have this awkward conversation for Mrs. Hughes's sake. It was as if he could sense that allowing her to inwardly fester any longer would lead to some irreparable harm to this woman who did so much for so many others. It was the least that he could do to press on.

"You said your fears might not be well-founded, not anymore."

Acknowledgment coloured her face. Though he couldn't know it, Mrs. Hughes was replaying all the heated dreams, the loaded looks, the almost overwhelming longing she felt as she sat beside Mr. Carson on the bench on that nearly fateful night.

But Tom had observed Mr. Carson's altered state upon his return. He knew the engagement had seemingly fizzled out. But now, with this knowledge, he could only characterize the man as being in mourning. Perhaps there was a glimmer of hope if Mrs. Hughes was reconsidering.

Tom treaded softly. "Don't think it's too late, to say what you need to say."

"We've both said our pieces, Mr. Branson. What's done is done and we both have not let it upset our work, so far."

His stillness belied his agitated thoughts, but his restraint gave way to a silent huff of laughter. Mrs. Hughes looked on, discombobulated.

"I remember a garden party, the first I attended here," he remembered with only a hint of melancholy at the thought of Sybil's shining face. "I must have worn my heart on my sleeve, then."

"You always do," she said fondly. It made him a passionate, loving, young chauffeur then. It made him a doting father now.

"You tried to warn me, all those years ago. But my heart was lost to wherever Sybil went. A part of it's still with her now. And I expect Mr. Carson's heart is with us on this hill in this moment and will be with you in your sitting room when we return home."

Her own heart welled and threatened to break again at the thought - for it was true, had been true for longer than she knew. She swallowed hard as bile rose within her, the tension in her voice and body unyielding.

"It may be with me, Mr. Branson, but that doesn't solve everything."

"No, no it doesn't," he conceded before his brow furrowed. "But such a love can bring us back from the depths. I witnessed that in the dining room when Lady Grantham cradled his lordship on the floor. So did Mr. Carson."

She recalled the bloodstained carpet, the menu card, as Mr. Branson pressed on. "What if he was the one in hospital? Would your heart be with him?"

"My prayers would be, of course," she insisted. But she knew what he meant - her pained expression proved it.

He let her folly linger before countering softly. "Not your prayers, Mrs. Hughes. Just your heart, the part that only beats for one other soul."

She bowed her head, seemingly lost in the prayers she had mentioned in that moment. The agony did not drain from her face and Mr. Branson regretted it when his intention had been to bring her somewhere to think, to collect herself.

"I'm sorry, Mrs. Hughes. I shouldn't have pressed you." She remained quiet, and he found himself unable to continue on. "We should head back when you're collected."

"I'm not sure when that will be, Mr. Branson, if I'm honest," she heaved with a sigh.

Eventually, she squared her shoulders and turned towards the parked car. Mr. Branson soon followed to open the door for her. With the door open between them, she rested a hand on the window sill. "And don't apologize for pressing me, Mr. Branson. I haven't pressed myself on this. Not enough, until now."

He bowed his head, not sure how to respond without the threat of keeping their thoughts to the mire.

He wondered, though, whether Mrs. Hughes would acknowledge what walked beside her, in the end: her fears, or the faithful, earnest heart of Charles Carson.

=C+E= C+E= C+E= C+E= C+E=

That evening at the Servant's dinner.

Upon her return from her outing with Mr. Branson, it was clear Mr. Carson was preoccupied by something. True, the butler had been a bit awkward for the past week, they both had. The abrupt ending to their evening on the bench provided a tense undercurrent.

Though Lord Grantham was slowly but steadily on the mend, Charles Carson had yet return to his previous equilibrium. Everything he held dear was tested not once, but twice, in the span of mere months. Combined with the crosswinds of change - of opening the house to the public, of Lord Grantham's push to consolidate the staffing - all of it had not sat well with Mr. Carson. His agitation had increased in spades over the past week.

But something beyond all that was obviously affecting him, Mrs. Hughes concluded when she sat down at the table and reached for an empty wine glass. No decanted bottle was in sight.

Everything was a delicate business between them now, and her voice was equally so. "Did you not have time to fetch a wine, this evening?"

"I don't think we should, not if his lordship feels obliged to give it up."

"But his lordship is suffering from a burst ulcer. We're not," she exclaimed quietly.

"I know, I know. But somehow it feels disloyal. He is my officer and I should follow his lead," stating it so definitely as if that thought alone would say enough for the obviously complex combination of assumptions that led to its conclusion.

 _Lord, this will make him grumpy_ , she surmised.

The dinner passed quickly, interspersed with assignments for the following day after Mr. Carson wordlessly asked for and received counsel from Mrs. Hughes. When he rose at the end of their meal, he was slow to head back to the office. With his slower pace, she felt comfortable enough in sharing her optimism in a public space, however set apart from others. "Everything will be ready for tomorrow, Mr. Carson," she assured him.

"I still don't like this business," he muttered. The thought of the family making such a decision on the heels of his lordship's illness was incredibly inappropriate in his estimation. It did not bode well for the future with Lord Grantham even more a figurehead at the helm. It was a future of which he was growing increasingly weary.

Most of the staff had shuffled off to other places. By then, they were standing outside her sitting room.

There was no reason for him to escort her that far. But both were not content to part just yet. It had been an age since they last shared a nightcap of any sort and the near-event on the bench had led to many a sleepless night. Too many thoughts of 'what if' had ensnared them both. What would they have done? Would she have welcomed it? Would it be worth it despite swearing off their attachment?

There was a sigh in her voice. "By this time tomorrow, it will be behind us."

It brought him little solace as his shoulder rolled slightly.

"What is it?"

"I can't seem to find my walking stick. I thought it was down here. I'll need to check my wardrobe before tomorrow."

Her voice was high, disbelieving. "Why would you…?" But her keen mind remembered with whom she was dealing. She was too amused to stifle her playfulness.

"Is it for when you catch a thief-red handed?"

The glint in her eye was distracting, and he was growing more entranced by her by the minute. He thought it best to end the conversation quickly.

"You never know, Mrs. Hughes," he said abruptly before returning to his pantry, leaving a confused and tickled housekeeper in his wake.

Mrs. Patmore had seen just enough as she crossed through the kitchen.

"What was that about," she exclaimed with a whisper as she joined Mrs. Hughes at the threshold to the sitting room.

Matching her muted tones, Mrs. Hughes revealed, "Mr. Carson does not have much faith in his fellow man. He's going to equip himself with a walking stick while the house is open tomorrow."

"Is he not imposing enough on his own," Mrs. Patmore wondered.

Mrs. Hughes had to chuckle at that. "You would think so, wouldn't you?"

"I wanted to let you know that my house is supposed to be finished in a few days."

"Goodness," the housekeeper exclaimed with some volume. "That soon?"

"I can't believe it. Would you like to come and take a look at the work?"

"I would love to join you if you need the company," Mrs. Hughes offered. She could do with a day away from the confusing atmosphere that seemed to plague Downton.

"When would you like to go?"

A baritoned butler surprised them in the hallway. "Go where?"

Mrs. Patmore had the wherewithal to survey the expressions of both butler and housekeeper. She had done little else in the past few weeks, sensing something had thawed the frigid divide between them. But given the mood swings of the butler, she proceeded with caution.

"I was just telling Mrs. Hughes about my house, Mr. Carson. It's nearly finished. We're planning to take a look at the work."

Anyone could discern Mr. Carson was more than interested at this development. Though he never acknowledged the thought until that moment, getting away from Downton for a few hours was something he desperately needed.

Despite all the awkward business of a few months ago, Mrs. Patmore found it in her to play chaperone, once more. "Would you like to join us?"

His eyes darted the housekeeper to gauge her interest in such a development. Finding no obvious resistance, he answered as his focus returned to the cook. "Only if you don't mind and the family is properly taken care of."

"Of course I don't mind."

His lips pouted slightly as he thought things over. "We could visit the house on Brouncker Road, too. I've been meaning to check up on the work. The fireplaces should be finished by now."

Mrs. Patmore managed to suppress some of her glee. "Then it's settled."

* * *

A/N: So, obviously, trying to track canon while also diverging from it is akin to walking a tightrope. I've borrowed some of canon dialogue and events, which is especially obvious in this chapter. The fun(?) of doing so involved reframing dialogue from the perspective that they are not newlyweds.

For the next chapter, sticking with the canon timeline is simply impossible because… canon didn't actually stick to its own timeline. Stay tuned!


	8. The Awful Daring

11 June 1925. A few days prior to the family departing for London and attending the race at Brooklands.

 _Datta: what have we given?  
My friend, blood shaking my heart  
The awful daring of a moment's surrender  
Which an age of prudence can never retract  
By this, and this only, we have existed  
Which is not to be found in our obituaries  
Or in memories draped by the beneficent spider  
Or under seals broken by the lean solicitor  
In our empty rooms_

\- The Waste Land, T.S. Eliot

* * *

The sights and sounds along the main road were lost on Mr. Carson. The swaying trees with each car passing by, the verdant countryside served as an unfocused resting place for his eyes. His mind was restless, and it was no wonder given the fact that he only had one companion with him on the bus to the house on Brouncker Road.

His mind eventually focused on the few moments he spent in Mrs. Patmore's bed and breakfast, surveying the yard through the same window in the kitchen in the same manner as a year before. And as he did a year ago, his vision was diverted, but his attention was drawn to the housekeeper quietly surveying the world around her.

The next few hours he hoped would go smoothly. But he could not be certain given that he was about to be alone with Mrs. Hughes in their own house, their past, present, and future largely unsettled.

* * *

She could have rung Mrs. Patmore's neck. What an idea she had, insisting that Mrs. Hughes and Mr. Carson accompany her to her nearly completed bed and breakfast before visiting the house on Brouncker Road.

True, it could inspire Mr. Carson, given the unfinished work on the house. Renovations had continued, and Mr. Carson honestly had needed to assess the progress of the floors, the bathrooms, and a myriad of other things. That Mrs. Patmore was forced to remain at her own property, having encountered some insufficient finishing work, did not assist matters.

In short order, Mrs. Hughes and Mr. Carson were alone on the bus and very quickly surveying the work on their own home - a fact that left Mrs. Hughes most uncomfortable for a number of still undiscussed reasons.

The sizeable house was quiet, which was not the environment Mr. Carson encountered on his last visit. The workers were enjoying the afternoon off to allow Mr. Carson the ability to survey the work. If he had concerns, he knew where to find them.

But now the afternoon was quite unanticipated. And he wasn't sure whether to welcome or fear the afternoon given what could have happened a few weeks before on the bench.

It did not help matters for Mrs. Hughes, just as they looked at this house almost a year before, that she really could picture them there, surrounded by guests or entirely alone. The work on the hearth in the main room was stunning, as she knew it would be given a bit of new plastering around it, and a bit of reconstruction of the mantel to match the style of the cornice used in the room. It would be stunning on a cool evening with the fire going strong. Mrs. Hughes sighed at that, sighed at every room where she could envision yet another bit of snuffed-out happiness.

Overall, the work was progressing smoothly, albeit slowly. It made conversations difficult, actually, having run out of things to critique in no time.

"When do you think they will be finished," Mrs. Hughes inquired.

His attention was elsewhere, her peculiarly tense expression unobserved. She wondered about him after his lordship's collapse and reduced control over Downton, all the changes that seemed to be arriving with greater frequency. And she had thought, vaguely, that his thoughts on retirement might becoming more concrete. It only made their unfinished business all the more important to address.

"It shouldn't be too much longer, now. Perhaps a month. Finishing and furniture will need to be considered next. Of course, I'll need your input on that, if you're interested."

At that, Mrs. Hughes had her opening after months of being ignored and put off.

"As a casual observer, yes, if you would like my input. But not as an owner, of course."

Mr. Carson had stepped in it, and he knew it. Without Mrs. Patmore's presence, this lingering business between them was no doubt going to be addressed by Mrs. Hughes.

His eyes rose to the heavens before he marshalled a calming breath. He couldn't help the stern note to his voice, however. "If you'd like to discuss the house, so be it."

After weeks of contemplating all that could have been shared between them on that bench, now was the time, she thought. _Now or never._

"I'd like to discuss a great many things, including the house." His eyes grew at that, _a great many things._

She continued her pursuit. "Have you taken my name off it?"

"No. No I haven't," he admitted with some amount of defiance. It only spurred her.

"But it makes no sense to keep me on there."

"It does, if you knew all the facts."

"Then perhaps you will enlighten me, Mr. Carson."

 _This wasn't how it was supposed to go_ , he surmised to himself. But the conversation needed to be had, and he would trudge onwards.

"I didn't discuss it a few months ago because it seemed inappropriate given the circumstances."

"We are saying our piece about it all. This all began because of this house, did it not?"

He bristled at that. All meant so much more than even their proposed marriage, as ridiculous as that might sound to her. "It was the means, but there was not just a single end."

She frowned at that. "I'm afraid I'm not following, Mr. Carson."

"It's difficult to put into words," he had to admit, as he crossed to one of the larger windows in the kitchen, far away from her. It looked out into the gardens, and he had trouble not imagining their life playing out there.

Her voice was laden with a sharp edge, making his eyebrows rise with alarm. But the sharpest point was not aimed towards ridiculing his abilities in articulation - she thought of her own troubles. "That I can understand."

Silence reigned for a moment as his eyes trailed back to hers in quick precision. "We're not discussing today, are we? Or the house," he ventured.

"No, Mr. Carson we're not. We're talking about that evening the Bates' were finally cleared."

His silence and steadfast gaze was enough to encourage her.

Her voice was quiet, but it mattered little in the empty, echoing room. In the stillness, she could not silence her accusatory tone. "You never let me finish, that night."

He started to speak but cut himself off in the same instant. _Old habits die hard_ , he realized.

"You never let me finish," she repeated to gather herself. "But I never tried to _say_ what I was feeling." Shaking her head, she corrected herself. "That's not exactly true. The words I needed were missing. I…" She bowed her head to summon the strength she needed all those months ago but could not conjure.

Finally, she was able to find his eyes and let her words fly free. "I let my fears overcome our future. I let my indecision silence me."

His head tilted at the admission, his expressive eyes brimming with guarded circumspection. He had been angry, despondent, numb, and a thousand other things in these past few months. But now that she spoke more plainly, spoke at all, made his heart beat with purpose, once more. And in that moment, his empathy only increased his love for her.

"I had only given you so much to go on, for a long time," he admitted almost as a question for her to answer affirmatively.

She had looked away from him for a moment. But when her eyes returned to him, so soft and entrancing, he forged ahead.

"I spoke of properties, of shared duties in running a guesthouse," he confessed, as if establishing a line of damning evidence in court.

Her rebuttal was soft, contradicting him with her own growing awareness over the past few months. "Running _our_ house, owning a home of any size with our names tied together."

Grateful for her understanding, he finally confessed. "Whether you agreed to marry me or otherwise, putting your name on the house wasn't just a possible means to an end." Her eyes bore into him.

"Well before I knew of your sister and… her condition, I knew that I wanted you to have everything that I own on this earth. Mr. Gregson's death and all that came with it had made me think," he admitted. In reality, he'd considered the matter long before that. But the idea had crystallized in the wake of Lady Edith's darkest hour.

"The house was a way for either of us to retire comfortably, whether I lived or died before that time."

Though it was muttered quietly, his quoting of a particular passage from _Pride and Prejudice_ was not lost on her. "'I thought only of _you_.'"

The odd juxtaposition – of a last will and testament and the moment Mr. Darcy finally won the fair hand of Miss Elizabeth Bennet, made her knees weak. And she was grateful for the chairs and kitchen table the previous owner left behind.

When the moment passed, she observed him, proud and handsome, as the sun hazily lit the outline of his profile. But she was grateful to see the full spectrum of expression in his eyes as he moved to sit across from her at their inherited kitchen table. Like so many families before and after them, revelations would be shared in that hallowed space.

"Believe me when I say this, Mrs. Hughes. I've only ever wished for your happiness, whether I was there to be a part of it or not."

His eyes could not stay with hers for long, and he bowed his head slightly to allow her the chance to gauge his expression. She found nothing but truth, and she wondered once again at the goodness of this man despite his sometimes gruff exterior. He could have been her Darcy, her Gabriel Oak, and all the other reformed, good men she found throughout literature. And this good man was not finished.

"Whether your name is on the house now, it will be fully conveyed to you when I depart this earth. My will says that you will inherit all, and has said so for some time. That will never change."

A bird found a home in the tree by the window, and its song was the only sound as the two sat there digesting these newly-revealed thoughts at the kitchen table. After some time, Mrs. Hughes closed her eyes in a quick, silent prayer. When her eyes opened once more, a clarity of purpose filled her despite knowing what her task entailed.

Her eyes were trained on the knot of his tie, blinking rapidly, thinking through every word she prepared to utter. Her voice began with both a burst and a slight hesitation, underscoring her mood.

"Would you like to know what I thought all those months ago?" Her eyes rose then, straining to meet his as her chin ducked. It was a move that never failed to captivate him, he realized with a gulp as she continued, this time with a steadier cadence.

"It took some time to sort it out, but I think I've got there."

Her eyes pulled away for a moment, her thoughts gathering once more. "It doesn't change anything, not necessarily. Only that..."

For this, she had to face him, and she did so bravely. "You were so honest then. You deserve my honesty, now that I'm able to articulate it."

He was torn, he conveyed with a pursed lip and downward glance – what good did it do to rehash the moment? But after their time on the bench after his lordship's collapse, and his need for some amount of closure on the chapter in his life he spent as a betrothed man, his curiosity overrode his deepest fears.

"Only if you wish to share."

She knew it required great strength and restraint on his part to indulge her. But second thoughts could lead to second chances, and for this she was now willing to risk a great deal.

"I was afraid... I'd be a disappointment to you – that I couldn't hope to please you as I am now."

He was incredulous and devastated at the thought. But it was her downtrodden face seeming to survey her own body that brought him the greatest alarm. And his eyebrows only punctuated his dichotomy. It had never occurred to him that she would fret over such a thing - that her disappointing him could ever be a possibility.

By now, her eyes were firmly fixed on the knot of wood in the middle of the table, her breath drawn with great effort. "I didn't think you could be so sure that I wouldn't be a disappointment. After months of..."

She trailed off then, not sure how to say it, even now. But this was a two-sided street, after all. "After St. Valentine's, I couldn't think that you'd want our marriage to be, well, as you said a few months ago."

He was muted in his offering, contrite and conflicted by this barrage of information he both feared and wanted. "A full marriage."

"And after what you told Mrs. Patmore, well…"

"I did shock you. I'm sorry."

" _No._ " Her rush to assure surprised them both. "As I said, I was convincing myself that you couldn't possibly want that, and that surely we were beyond that age..." But months of restless dreams demonstrated the contrary.

His answer was a string of self-inflicted wounds. It did not get any easier sacrificing happiness, even a more platonic version of it, months after their attachment came to an end. Still, he could not look her in the eye when it came to summing up their current status. He would defer to her until the end, even if it meant not pressing her to clarify the current state of her convictions.

"Well, that explains a bit. Perhaps it's best we left it as we did."

She wasn't sure how to broach it, to contradict him and reveal her latent desires. Frustration led her to her feet, but she did not make it past the end of the table, coming to a halt at his left shoulder.

Her voice was a muted whisper as she stared straight ahead, too afraid to look him in the eye. "Were you sure then? Of all things you told Mrs. Patmore?" Her long-suffering lower lip bore the brunt of her silent agitation as she waited for an answer.

His eyes remained trained on her now empty chair as the very air around them grew more charged by the moment.

"Every word, I meant. I had never been so sure of anything."

The window called for her even as her heart beat wildly for the man still seated at the table. There was only one question left and she wasn't sure she could get there.

Jaggedly, she rotated her head back slightly towards the table behind her. She could see his right hand, anxiously clenched on his thigh. But she knew that posture, that movement. It did not come from foreboding. It came from anticipation.

And with that understanding, she turned back towards the window – her lingering doubts caught in the breeze outside, her determination sprouted from the blooming flowers.

At last, the lingering question would no longer be silenced.

"And now - are you sure now?"

Nothing stirred for a moment—the singing bird, the gentle breeze outside, faded from their existence. Nothing else existed as they faced away from each other.

But soon the rustling of fabric was joined by footsteps. And though she could not see it, her heart was pulled by the vision of him tugging as his waistcoat. His footsteps were measured, seemed to take an eternity as she finally turned to meet him.

But his journey across the chasm between them, inconceivable until their moment on the bench, was worth the wait.

What words he thought to summon were lost momentarily by the vision of her – the same halo from the filtered sunlight that had lit his profile minutes before. His arms were oddly still by his side, as if he held them there deliberately to keep his emotions in check. But his eyes – his eyes were brimming with an emotion that only enlivened her.

He repeated her words as a rhetorical question, as if to assure themselves of the stakes. "Am I sure now?"

The moment her honesty gave way to her incredulous confessions of not being enough, his heart had flooded with growing adoration. It had never left him in all these months. It had only been kept at bay by the silent vow he had made to her – that he would never try to force her to reconsider their failed engagement. Pride and propriety had led them to this point. But propriety was no longer a question when she laid her thoughts before him.

All that was required, now, was a moment of surrender to the forces that would bind them together. And as the moments ticked by, their blood shook their hearts in aching anticipation.

"Time has passed," he admitted. With a shake of his head, his eyes implored her. "But nothing has changed – I've never been so sure - of anything."

She had held her breath in those final moments. But now the dam that had built itself over months of worry, of indecision, finally burst in a torrent of powerful yet relieving waves. And in the resulting rush, she rose above the fray, rushing to assure him even as her insecurities lingered in the form of self deprecation.

"Well then, Mr. Carson. If you want me, you can have me – to quote Oliver Cromwell, 'warts and all.'"

Since he had walked over to the window, the need to express himself without words quickly became paramount. Her cheeks, becomingly flush, only highlighted the beautiful lines of her face. And he had difficulty leaving his hands by his side and saying the words they both needed to hear. But now, this beautiful woman that captivated his heart and soul, had made it impossible to not reach for her, once she ducked her chin and fluttered her eyes unknowingly.

His voice was a breathless as the moments they spent alone in his pantry last Christmas Eve. "Mrs. Hughes, dare I ask again?"

But while she had been playful then, she could not have been more intent to allay his fears with unquestionable clarity.

"You _may_ ask me again, Mr. Carson," she offered hypothetically, her eyes darting away momentarily before resting squarely on his. "And while time has passed, the terms of our understanding were made clearer, and I may still wonder if what you may find will please you—my answer hasn't changed. I'm only too sorry it took us this long to get here."

The impatient, tingling feeling in his fingers grew with her every word. And soon he finally settled his right hand upon her shoulder, his thumb gently resting on her soft cheek.

Softly, he promised as much with his words as with his eyes, "It doesn't matter how long it took, as long as we can move forward together."

The sensation of his thumb caressing her cheek as she shook her head to reassure him was a revelation to them both. But even that was not enough. And he quickly found himself bending towards her becoming face.

And after nearly six months of confusion, heartache, and separation, their lips finally met for the first time.

His other hand soon found purchase on her shoulder while she was too shocked in the moment to do anything with hers. Chaste pressure, punctuated by the lilting sigh of Elsie Hughes, gave way to heightened reality. But to assure them that it was not a dream, their lips soon parted before securing themselves inside a gentle and full embrace.

Rocking slightly as they learned of each other inside their new and intimate haven, sighs and deep breaths seemed to flow as easily as the love that had always been between them.

Her eyes were closed in bliss, her other senses too consumed with the new sensations to be bothered by a competing force. And in that pleasant darkness, his scent made her feel at home as much as the walls around them that kept the world at bay.

Her hair was an intoxicating diversion, the scent of her soap, everything that he was so blessed to observe up close distracted him from the words he most needed to express. His lips were just near her ear, and that alone was its own distraction. But he was duty bound, and that was the only reason he was able to state plainly and emphatically what he felt for the woman who somehow stitched up his broken heart twice in a lifetime.

"I love you," he whispered in the hair just above her ear.

Though he did not see her eyelids crinkle in recognition, he did feel her squeeze more tightly around his middle. And soon he found himself repeating the thought, growing more comfortable with finally saying it aloud until his betrothed was soon giggling and wriggling slightly out of his embrace.

There was laughter in her voice when she finally said it, her hand gently landed just above his rapidly beating heart.

"I love you, Mr. Carson."

But finally hearing herself speak the truth, finally feeling each thud of his heart inside his chest, she sobered at once. Her voice took on the profound nature of the words she finally had the courage to utter. "I love you."

After months of looking anywhere but each other, the synchronicity that once punctuated their relationship took on a new dimension. And now their questioning glances, from brimming eyes to waiting, parted lips, were easily understood and answered.

The bitterness of their separation gave way to the sweet victory of never giving up on each other. And in the heady throes of victory over fear and miscommunication, they lingered longer, grew bolder in every kiss meant to erase the pain and confusion from the previous months. Now that they were together, purpose would fuel every glance, every breath, every movement.

Her hands finally sought out the lapels of his jacket, having now found the pleasure that comes with feeling his heart beat rapidly under her curled fingers. That he hummed his pleasure only reinforced the reality that they were finally back on the same path.

Another world seemed to emerge once their lips finally parted, their eyes finally opened once more. And it was the only world either remained interested in for the afternoon before returning to the Abbey.

* * *

A/N 1: Ah, canon timelines. Of all the screwy timelines of Downton, the week of the Brooklands race/Mrs. Patmore's B&B opening, was the most exasperating one to me. Thus, it was difficult to stick with the actual dates during which the family was not at Downton and the actual days of the week Mrs. Patmore refers to when showing Mrs . Hughes her new house. So, after chapters of trying to stay true to the timeline, I simply made my own. Call it, "Pulling a Fellowes," if you will.

A/N 2: I had to drop in a bit of Austen. The first nod is obvious. The second nod is not. Did you catch it?

A/N 3: There is one more chapter. Technically, it's an epilogue. Care to guess what it entails?

A/N 4: Thank you all for sticking with me. I know I didn't take it easy on you in the chapters leading up to this one. But I am very grateful you made it this far. Despite the frustration and despair I had in the process of writing this, it was, ultimately, one of the most satisfying things I've written. So, thank you for reading and reviewing.


	9. Epilogue: The Violet Hour

_At the violet hour, the evening hour that strives  
Homeward, and brings the sailor home from sea..._

\- The Waste Land, T.S. Eliot

* * *

Scarborough.

On their first evening as Mr. and Mrs. Carson, they walked along the edge of the main, crescent-shaped beach, keeping to the pavement. Their wedding day had been long, but they couldn't miss a chance at venturing closer to the sea. The look of serenity each found in separate glances as they breathed deeply of the sea air had made their journey worth it. They had made it, in more ways than one.

Shortly after, they ate heartily in the hotel restaurant. As newlyweds of any age are prone to discover, the little they ate of their actual wedding breakfast hardly sustained them. The combination of being preoccupied by the sheer enormity of their commitment and the need to visit with all those that came to share in their moment kept the bride and groom going through the afternoon. It was no wonder that each morsel was a culinary revelation that evening.

When their hunger was finally sated, other primal instincts competed with each other in the fading light of their rooms.

* * *

A pleasant chill went down his spine as he slid the lock into place. Turning to eye her walking slowly across the sitting area, he chuckled.

It was not a sound she expected to hear as she removed her hat and gloves. It was something she'd never quite heard before - not amusement, but something else. Rather, it was disbelief that bubbled forth, for they were finally alone. And upon seeing all her fine curls framing her face, his shining expression was softly extinguished by a loving gaze.

Her upturned hand was quickly filled by his own upon his crossing the room. And they soon found themselves standing rather closely before the rather sizeable settee. But it's inviting confines were lost to them. It could not compete with expensive velvet, with soft wool and warm skin.

The warm weight of his right hand upon her cheek was something from which she would never tire. But he did not linger there long. He sought out new pursuits, instead.

It was rather amusing to her, to see him stepping away, bowing his head slightly to take her left hand in his right. But her amusement melted at the overt act of his lips upon her ring finger, brushing against the shining, cool metal.

He could not stay away from her, not from her lips that allowed a gasp to tumble forth at his actions. And soon they were knotted together loosely, his hands slowly exploring the still chaste territory of her corseted back, the warm sliver of exposed skin between her curled locks and neckline.

She hummed her satisfaction as her lips slowly slid across his. His tongue soon faintly tasted hers, and the ambrosia of savoring the wine they shared over dinner only increased her fervor.

The urgency in the embrace, the rush of breath between them as they parted for a moment, startled them both.

But it was the intense gaze from husband to wife, dark and longing, that caused an unfamiliar ripple through her entire being. And the intensity of it sent her reeling.

He could feel as much as see a gathering of nerves descend upon his wife (his wife, at last). And while he knew there was so much to say to her over the coming lifetime - words of desire and devotion - he knew her well enough to simply look at her with all the quiet and calming deference he could muster.

That she seemed to recover in that moment, to let her hand rest upon his forearm and squeeze in acknowledgment, proved the new husband right.

"I think I'll freshen up a bit," she declared breathlessly, not knowing how else to move along the evening while allowing herself to feel some shred of comfort. Despite having been witness to a myriad of emotions across her husband's face all day, emotions that conveyed he did indeed find her beautiful, she was still nervous.

It was an odd vision - her opening her luggage on their bed. He hadn't actually looked past her once they entered the room. And while he considered her every move, he did not think to envision her changing out of her wedding attire. All he saw was a vision of domesticity he had never imagined but was overjoyed to witness. And the realization of it lit his face with an easy smile warmed by his twinkling eyes.

Even when imbued with the purpose of wanting to wed this woman, no imaginings could quite encapsulate all that he sought. The combination of solitude and intimacy they now enjoyed together was everything - and yet, just the beginning.

There was still the matter of the final intimacy - increasingly present yet somehow a little less daunting now that they were alone and free to be just Charles and Elsie. And it was that companionable solitude that led her to continue them down the path to a moment that had caused her great unease.

"I think I'll have a bath."

A nod of the head in acknowledgment. Anything else seemed improper to him, or worse - held the potential of being misconstrued.

He made quite a show of seeking out his own suitcase as she gathered her things and headed for the ensuite.

"I'll put away my things, then."

To pass the time, to not let his mind wander to the bath, to the sound of the pipes engaging and disengaging, he took great care in emptying his luggage.

His took his nightclothes with him to the settee along with another item that proved to be a suitable distraction.

* * *

Perhaps Mrs. Patmore would frown if she knew Charles Carson, proud groom to his wonderful bride, Elsie Hughes, brought a novel with him on his honeymoon.

But literature had brought the butler and housekeeper together over the years, quite innocently and also quite intimately so. Truth be told, the novel he brought with him was a late addition to his packing.

It was with a wry smile he realized that they were, finally, far from the madding crowds of Downton and their fellow seafarers in Scarborough.

Shaking his head at his own absurdity, he thought back to the recent memory of him trekking down stairs in the middle of the night before his wedding to acquire the book from Mrs. Hughes' sitting room.

There was something delightfully intimate about borrowing someone's book. And given his unique insight into her severe financial circumstances, every book she managed to purchase on her own was a dear thing, indeed.

Opening the book with care, he thumbed through the first few chapters. Instinctively, he found the passages that compelled him to abscond with her novel and bring it to the seaside. Over and over he read them, flipping through each page, flattening out the parchment with his finger under every word that resonated.

That is, until he heard her moving to exit the en suite. The sound of the door opening masked the tell-tale thud of the book being closed and placed upon the settee.

He was on his feet, moving to grab his nightclothes to distract himself from her new attire. It's not that he didn't want to look. He was more afraid of not being able to look away. Somewhere in the periphery, he registered a robe he'd never seen before - lighter in weight and hue, seemingly softer to the touch. Then there was her hair, loosely plaited and beautiful.

He kept to her eyes when he promised, "I won't be too long," before shutting the door behind him. If he had given her the chance, she would have discerned a significant swallow, one that could not be stifled once he spied her plaited auburn hair resting atop the delicate yet understated details of her creme robe.

Part of him thought two baths in one day for himself was an absurd, off-limit luxury. But this was no ordinary day. So used to remaining clean-shaven with two passes of the blade each day, he felt rather unkempt as he contemplated himself in the mirror. But it wasn't only his stubble that made him so. It was the entire day, the first day of being married to Elsie Carson. He began his ablutions in earnest with an absentminded smile.

* * *

Chewing on her lower lip, she surveyed the vast and challenging terrain of their suite. Glancing at the bed made her pause - countless memories of imaginings of them together resurfaced in earnest. And with several breaths pressing through her pursed lips, she regained some sense of equilibrium as the bed loomed before her.

She was nothing if not decided in not getting into bed on her own. While the evening had become less daunting in her psyche, she could only cross the Rubicon hand in hand with him.

The settee would have to suffice, she realized with a forced exhale. In fact, it would fare too well, her new husband would discover after he emerged bathed and dressed for bed.

* * *

Slow blinks brought some clarity to her hazy vision. The windows towards the sea was to her right, but that wasn't what mattered most.

It was the man seated next to her, patient and amused simultaneously.

And in a state of grogginess, she brought them closer together still. With her head resting squarely on his shoulder, they both sighed in silent pleasure. The inviting, cleansing warmth of their baths made them teeter on the edge of consciousness and the relief that would come with succumbing to the exhaustion of the day.

Eventually, he disturbed the quiet peace of their new haven with a whisper. "We should be asleep in bed."

A murmur was all he received in response for a time, the reality of his solid presence beside her, closer than they had ever managed before, set off a battle inside. But remorse eventually surfaced, for a clear winner had emerged from the battle between her fatigue and the amorous effect of her husband on the evening of their wedding.

"I'm sorry," she lamented. And he had the wherewithal to discern her apologies were not just about falling asleep on the settee.

"Nonsense. It's been a long day for us both."

Sighing at that, they both gathered themselves before embracing once more.

This time, it was so very different - the soft curve of her hips, her breasts pressed against him - were the first of many revelations.

Her fatigue was still persistent, he discerned from the sweet, sleepy face that gazed back at him. And he found it best to bring some levity to the situation if only to distract his own primal instincts.

"There is one thing that we might resolve if we're up for it," he mentioned before trailing off.

Sobering, her breath caught in her chest. "What's that?"

"On what side would you like to sleep?"

She froze for a moment, caught off guard by the question. But her expression soon melted. "Why don't we chose one tonight and see if we like it," she offered before marveling at his indulgent smile.

"Very sensible, Mrs. Carson."

A moment of shared recognition - Mrs. Carson - led to them sorting out their places for the night. She was unaware of his own marveling stare at her, now in only her gown, now with her before the bed in which they will learn to live as closely two people can.

* * *

One lamp cast a pleasant glow on the scene, the darkness beyond its reach a welcomed shroud around their marital bed. And with their eyes upturned to the ceiling, their hands were soon entwined as they learned to let each other in. Decades of nighttime rituals were obliterated that night, after all.

Her head rolled softly towards him, his outline now more defined as his chest rose and fell. There was a moment of intrigued clarity amidst her fatigue.

"A book of mine was on the settee. How did it make its way to Scarborough?"

He smiled bashfully, unable to quite respond.

A false jest came to mind, but still she was playful in her sleepiness. "Were you worried you'd be bored of me?"

It wasn't a complicated question, jest or otherwise. But still he pursed his lips, gathered his thoughts. "It was more to distract me from thinking only of you. It failed."

Her stomach tensed, and without a corset, it was much easier for him to discern. Her eyes trained across the room, the latest words of adoration somehow landing a greater blow given the many wondrous things he'd uttered all day.

"I have to get used to you saying things like that."

He did not disturb her solitude with his intent gaze, her confession a gift in itself. "I hope you never will."

Her eyes were downcast, smiling prettily as she squeezed his hand. The back of the settee came into focus as they continued to recline silently.

"What struck me was the particular book you borrowed."

"I thought it was time to focus on a new chapter," he confessed to her puzzled face before rising to quickly snatch the book from across the room.

When he returned, the dynamic shifted still, their backs now resting against the headboard.

His hand gently caught her left, leading it towards the now opened book. And they burrowed closer to each other as he followed the passages with an outstretched finger.

The novelty of it tickled her until she reached an unforgettable exchange of dialogue between Gabriel Oak and Bathsheba Everdene.

 _"I shall do one thing in this life-one thing certain-that is, love you, and long for you, and keep wanting you till I die."_

A quick, cleansing breath fortified them both.

"For a long time, this stuck with me, and poorly," he confessed. "When I was younger, it gave me hope for Alice that only soured. And with you," he started before summoning memories of the recent past. "It seemed to injure with greater force than I could ever imagine."

Her apologies were not what he required, and he kissed her temple and imbibed on her intoxicating scent to quiet her protests.

He was not finished, she could discern as he flipped towards the end of the novel with his free hand.

He brought them to the end of a chapter she could not finish reading all those months ago.

 _"They spoke very little of their mutual feeling; pretty phrases and warm expressions being probably unnecessary between such friends. Theirs was that substantial affection which arises (if any arises at all) when the two who are thrown together begin first by knowing the rougher sides of each other's character, and not the best till further on, the romance growing up in the interstices of a mass of hard prosaic reality. This good-fellowship-camaraderie-usually occurring through similarity of pursuits is unfortunately seldom superadded to love between the sexes, because men and women associate, not in their labours, but in their pleasures merely. Where, however, happy circumstances permits its development, the compounded feeling proves itself to be the only love which is strong as death-that love which many waters cannot quench, nor the floods drown, beside which the passion usually called by the name is evanescent as steam."_

He waited until he was sure she read through it all, taking pleasure in the way she absorbed each and every word with her beautiful face.

"And yet, this passage, until today, was what mattered above all and I didn't even know it. Not until I sat there on the settee and realized…"

Their eyes connected, words suddenly incomplete vessels for all that they needed to convey.

Hopeless, sweet kisses made bitter by mingling tears - embraces that hardly registered the soft shapes yet to be explored when not a shred of clothing between them - eyes brimming with competing emotions wrought the final battle with fatigue that relinquished therm to slumber soon enough.

But it did not keep them from each other, from the simple pleasure of chastely learning of each other's unencumbered bulk, reclining in their marital bed.

And as they slowly sunk further into the the sheets, they did not pay any mind to that single lamp still burning as they slipped into a deep and satisfying sleep.

* * *

On their first morning, they heard the gulls outside their window as they woke, their hands touching sweetly across the large bed.

He hadn't pressed her under the dusky glow of a single bedside lamp burning. But his delighted inhale of her plaited hair conveyed his devotion. Her touch upon his pajama-clad chest confirmed her adoration. And inside their haven of joy, of love, of absolute perfection, each embarked on the most peaceful slumber each had ever known.

But the morning brought additional time for reflection. He had observed the eastern sky shine brightly into their room - a suite gifted to them by his lordship - before settling his eyes on the captivating dip of her waist beneath their bedclothes. Before long, she turned on her side to face him, and the vision before him outshone the rising sun.

Her gaze was steadfast, taking in this man, her husband. His unkempt, soft hair and piercing eyes, his moistened lips nearly twitching as he regarded her. And every insecure thought vanished as her awareness sharpened in the growing sunlight.

When their bodies fully awakened to the reality of their seclusion, they heard the waves crashing below them as they embarked on the first stages of a full marriage.

* * *

On their second evening, they gained their sea legs, once again.

They paddled along the main beach, to and fro, towards the direction of the castle and back. Pondering the growing twilight, the sand beneath their feet sunk slightly. But they were far from unsteady.

They were content to hear the gulls that dive and ghost across the surf. They were enamored by the warmth at their hands that kept the chill in their toes but a minor thought. And they were distracted by the memories of their morning, learning of each other amongst the crisp sheets of their marital bed.

For all her worries about baring herself to her husband, she hardly minded their roomed bathed in filtered sunlight from their shuttered windows overlooking the sea. It punctuated her alabaster skin underscored by freckles acquired here and there. She knew he found them, was fascinated by them as his eyes turned darker, the back of his fingers trailing paths along her hip, her upper thigh as her breath hitched.

And with each touch, each sigh, each intense culmination of devotion and desire, the once persistent question on whether they would please each other in a full marriage was a distant, faded memory.

* * *

The day was growing short on their second day. The sea air kept them barefoot in the sand for a long while, but it was time for them to make their way along the long ramp towards the road hugging the shore. Before the Spa Bridge, he intended to cross the street. He wasn't one to touch her in public, a privilege he only now thought he might deserve. But now he couldn't help himself, the long fingers of his left hand finding purchase on her right elbow. Her hair was ablaze with the fading sun behind her, ducking under the tall bridge.

"What is it," she wondered with alarm. Cars were traveling quickly next to them. But as she found him staring at her with a mix of shock and awe in the alluring shadows of his hazel eyes, such thoughts quickly quieted.

After months of misinterpreting his expression, she knew exactly what was to follow as the distance disappeared between them. But such knowledge only enhanced her anticipation. Her breath quickened in that last second before their parted lips finally met in a moment of delicious promise.

No one minded their halted progress on the pavement. But the occasional onlooker smiled upon the couple so obviously enamored with each other as their sweet kiss eventually ended.

Her eyes were bright, laced with the hues of amusement, desire, and sublime pleasure in the man beside her. Though moments future insecurity might plague her - the inevitable outcome of her disbelief in her own desirability - she reigned the shoreline that evening as an assured, compelling goddess of the sea.

His right hand lingered at her elbow, the need to touch her again making it tremble before rounding around its soft edges.

He thought that the longing, the aching he'd felt for her for longer than he remembered would cease upon them becoming one, in spirit and body. But as he caught her there, eclipsing the brilliant sunset behind her, he found himself resoundingly mistaken.

The longing would never cease, only grow until they could be together again. The winding path up the hill to their hotel was never longer than in that amber-turned-violet hour. But, in the end, it hardly mattered.

Wherever they walked was homeward bound, now that they were together.

The end.

* * *

It took a while to get here, but I hope it was worth the journey. Please let me know if you enjoyed it or if I'm forgiven for all I put them through to get to this point.

Thank you all for reading.


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